Torn and Tattered Seams
by Dirty Thoughts of Bliss
Summary: Marshall has always been the keeper of his wayward, broken lioness, but Mary finds the positions flipped after he nearly looses his life. Now she is the keeper of a bitter lion in want of no ones help, especially not hers. Rated for 'Naked Time'.
1. Five to the Chest

**Torn and Tattered Seams**

**Chapter 1: Five to the Chest**

**A/N: **Okay wow. Not a single post since April 2008. I'm kind of stunned that it's been so long, but today I decided that I was going to sit down and write with the intent to post. I have read so much fantastic IPS fan fiction lately, and I'm as equally fed up with the direction that the writers are taking the series in as most of you on here, so I decided, 'what the hell, why not.' Please be forgiving if I screw things up a little, I'm kind of out of practice using other peoples characters in stories, but constructive criticism is very welcome.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing other than my degrees, my bird, and any characters that I make up.

Hope you enjoy the ride!

mMm

Albuquerque was cool a night, the desert winds blowing through open windows, bringing with it the scent of night blooming flowers, rustling blonde hair and blue sheets. A groan, muffled by a drooled on pillow became a snarl as the cell phone on her nightstand began to vibrate and ring, skittering across the hard wood for only a second before a long fingered hand closed around it and green eyes blinked tiredly at the glaring red numbers on her alarm clock.

"This better be good Stan," Mary growled into the phone, "It's 2 in the morning for god's sake!"

"Mary," his voice was watery and Mary was immediately awake, back ramrod straight as she sat up, her sheets pooling at her waist.

"What is it Stan?" she was shaking, she faintly recognized. Praying that it wasn't what popped into her head. Praying that this wasn't about Marshall.

"I just got a call from APD. There's been a shooting…" he trailed off, uncertain.

"Damn it what happened?" she was already out of bed, pulling on clothes with one hand the other hand clenching her phone so hard that her knuckles were white.

He was silent for a long moment.

"Stan I swear…"

"Marshall was shot." He blurted it out, unsurprised to hear the phone drop from Mary's hand and hit the floor with a dull thud.

She hit the floor next to her phone and scooped it up, "I need details." She was in detached US Marshal mode, and it was the only thing keeping her from flying apart.

"Marshall went on a call out with Detective Chaffe," he began slowly, "She had received a call on a case she was working, and the address was uncomfortably close to one of his witnesses. He elected to go with just in case."

"And he was shot," she spoke, worrying her lip between her teeth.

"God Mary, they shot him and he still managed to take them both out before he passed out!" Stan exploded and Mary flinched, he was shouting now and she kept the phone to her ear despite his volume, afraid to miss a single detail, "They put five rounds in his chest and he still took them out with a single kill shot each! That worthless fucking detective hadn't even managed to pull her damn gun before it was all over!"

He was panting with fury and Mary was trembling harder now, "Where is he now Stan?" Her voice was deceptively even, and Stan took a deep breath.

"He's in surgery at Albuquerque Main," she heard a faint sob from her boss, "Gods Mary it doesn't look good." He was mumbling now, "I gotta call his parents… after I get out of the APD office… I gotta write up a report…"

"Stan," she interrupted as she moved through her house, snatching her badge, gun, and keys, "I'm headed to the hospital now. I'll call his parents after I talk to the doctor."

"Thanks," he breathed, and she knew him well enough to know that he was rubbing his face and bald head with one hand as he spoke, "I'm so sorry Mary."

"Yeah, I am too," she hung up as she slid into the Mustang, so thankful to be in a car that didn't have a problem starting right up like the probe did. She stared at the dash for a long heartbeat, glancing out of the corner of her eye at the passenger seat, trying to imaging Marshall sitting there with his head cocked to one side. Too tall in a too short car, and she vowed vehemently to herself that if Marshall survived this, she was going to buy an SUV with plenty of head room, in a totally nondescript color.

Or maybe a truck.

She grinned slightly, Marshall would like that.

The sports car roared as she flipped it into reverse and jammed on the gas, tired spinning for a second before she was jetting backwards, car skidding sideways as she shifted it into drive long before it had full stopped. The transmission groaned and she winced, grateful that Peter wouldn't be likely to charge her for repairs on the car when she returned it. Driving the car like she stole it, Mary blew through yellow and red lights, and nearly thirty stop signs before she pulled into a spot in the hospital parking lot. Barely taking the time to put it into park, she yanked the keys from the ignition and slammed the door, running full tilt for the ER.

Wiggling through the sliding doors before they were fully open, Mary strode towards the desk standing tall with every ounce of authority she possessed in spite of the fact that she was wearing too big sweat pants and a tank top with no bra underneath.

But a teary, and still nauseatingly perky voice cut through her like a knife.

"Oh Mary," Abigail sobbed, "Thank god you're here!" Mary turned to face the girl who was moving towards her, arms open, undoubtedly for a hug, and she snapped, snarling like the lioness that Marshall often accused her of being.

Mary stalked towards her, her lips pulled back in a vicious smile, as she went right over the coffee table between them instead of around it. "You fucking bitch," Mary growled, rearing back as she came into striking range, her fist colliding with the smaller woman's jaw with a sickening crunch. Her left came up with just as much force, smashing into Abigail's nose, sending her sprawling onto the black and white tile floor. She was just about to pounce on the woman, every ounce of fury bubbling under her skin like magma when a voice cut through her rage.

"Are you the family of Mr. Mann?"

"I am," Mary turned to face the Doctor as a nurse rushed in to attend to the woman on the floor.

"Would you be Mary Shannon?" he asked, looking anxious.

"Yes," she nodded as she followed the man into a private room.

"Good," he sighed, taking a seat and motioning for her to do the same. "You do know that you are listed as Mr. Mann's medical contact and that he has you filed as having his medical power of attorney should he be incapacitated.?"

"Yeah," she rubbed her face with her hands, trying to keep the tears at bay.

"I'm going to need you to sign some paper work about the procedures we already performed, and I need your approval for an invasive procedure to remove the final slug which is buried in his spinal column," he spoke slowly, as though expecting her to attack him, and he flinched when her head shot up.

"Buried in his spine?" she was trembling again.

"Yes," the Doctor nodded slowly, "It is in a very bad place, wedged between two vertebrae and putting pressure on his spinal cord. We need to get it out as quickly as possible to reduce the chances of paralysis, but we needed to get him stabilized before we could attempt it. And we need your permission."

He handed her the clipboard and she signed it quickly, handing it back to him, "Is he going to be okay?"

"I wish I could give you a definitive answer to that," the man looked tired, "Any of his wounds, by themselves are survivable, but when you put them together, it is a lot of stress on his body." He gauged her mood carefully, and despite the murder in her eyes, he continued, "His heart has stopped three times already. We were able to shock him back each time, but…"

"Can I see him?" she asked softly, staring down at her hands, "Just for a minute?"

"I can take you back for a moment while the OR is prepped for his next surgery," the Doctor spoke softly, as he stood and she followed him from the room.

The first glimpse of Marshall was horrible, wires, IV's, and tubes everywhere, his already pale skin nearly the same color as the white gauze and blankets he was wrapped in. A sob escaped her a she moved to his side, and the Doctor stepped back to give him her a semblance of privacy.

Calloused fingertips ghosted over his cheeks, as tears finally spilled over her cheeks, "Idiot," she murmured gently, leaning forward to press her lips to his gaunt cheeks and forehead. "Don't you dare give up! Don't you even think of leaving me, even for a second!" Her voice was harsh and feral, "I need you numbnuts." She laughed ruefully, "Someone has to keep me from mauling the unsuspecting public." She thought of his girlfriend in the waiting room, "Though the cheerleader deserved it."

"Ms. Shannon," the doctor called gently to her, "They're ready for him."

Nodding, Mary backed away, tears in her eyes as she watched them wheel Marshall away from her.

mMm

**A/N: **Okay guys, I'm gonna warn you now, I can kind of be a bitch. I've been known to torture characters, though never anything to horrendous when it's a character I really love. But that being said I can be very, very cruel to characters I dislike. If I could have figured out some way for Mary to snap Abigail's neck in the waiting room and get away with it, I would have done it. Suggestions and critiques are very welcome and will hopefully keep me updating regularly, though work does tend to get in the way.

Love Y'all,

DToB (My penname is just too damn long…)


	2. Waiting is the Hardest Part

**Torn and Tattered Seams**

**Chapter 2: Waiting is the Hardest Part**

**A/N: **I am trying not to lose momentum by taking too much time between chapters. Though I realized after the fact that I didn't proofread the last chapter. Grrrhh, I hate that.

**Disclaimer: **Still own nothing. Though really wish I owned Marshall. Who else thought that he was sexy in his Amish nightgown? ^_^

mMm

Mary spent the next 8 hours curled up in the uncomfortable hospital chair in the SICU room where Marshall would be moved after his surgery. A surgery that was still going on. After breaking down like a little girl in the middle of the ER she had jumped first a nurse, then a doctor demanding to see Marshall's file. Finally the Doctor that she had spoken to earlier, Dr. Daniels, had given the harassed staff permission to hand over the file, though it was probably not entirely legal to do so, and she had scoured through the write up of his most current shooting. A lot of it went right over her head, medical jargon that made absolutely no sense, but she understood enough to realize just how dire her partner's condition was. Then she had called first Stan, who answered on the first ring, and then Marshall's parents.

Seth Mann had answered, still half asleep, his wife curiously asking who it was in the background, and she had rushed through the details as fast as she could, more than a little terrified to break down in tears while on the phone with the retired US Marshal. After getting the news from her shell-shocked husband, Claire Mann had snatched the phone from him and, in a tone that she had heard from Marshall a thousand times, demanded that Mary call her often.

With news or just to talk. She liked Marshall's mom immediately.

She had ended up staying on the phone with Claire for almost two hours, until her phone announced that the battery was nearly dead.

Standing stiffly from the chair she paced around the room, rubbing her arms against the chill. She couldn't imagine a world without Marshall, the thought was just so bleak. The last time she had had to face that reality had been in a tiny gas station in the middle of nowhere, and she knew without a doubt that had he died on her, she would have eaten the barrel of her government issue sidearm.

It wasn't an impossibility this time either.

Her fingers itched for the familiar weight of her weapon, and she fidgeted, knowing she wouldn't be able force herself to leave the building to retrieve it from the lockbox under the seat of her mustang.

"Mary," a soft voice called from outside the room, and she spun to face the meek form of her sister, peaking in around the door frame, a black duffel bag clutched to her chest. "Your boss called and told me what happened. I brought you some stuff from home." She held out the bag, the black canvas duffel hanging between them.

"Thanks Squish," her voice was watery.

Brandi stepped fully into the room, "I put some books in here so you can read to Marshall. I heard it helps."

Mary enveloped her sister in a hug smashing the duffel between them, crying against the girl's pink cardigan, probably ruining it with her tears, only marginally horrified that she was crying on her sister's shoulder, something that she had never, _never_, done. "Thanks Squish." She whimpered, "That was really thoughtful of you." And it was, the Brandi of a year ago never would have thought of it. Never considered doing something to comfort her sister. Peter had been good for her. Better than Mary ever could have been for her sister.

Mary loved her sister, had raised her sister. Made sure she survived long enough to be a _person_. Peter had made her a _good person_. She really needed to thank him the next time she saw him.

"Do you want me to stay with you for a little bit?" Brandi asked, patting Mary's blonde hair, smoothing out the tangles, "The nurse told me that I'll have to leave when they bring Marshall in, but I can stay with you till then."

"That would be nice," Mary sank back into her chair, and Brandi dropped into the one next to it, "Did you bring my cell phone charger?"

Brandi giggled, "First thing I packed!"

"You're a lifesaver Squish," Mare pulled out a large grey sweater as she dug for the charger, plugging her phone up as soon as she found it, "The stupid thing is almost dead after talking to Marshall's mom."

"How are they?"

"I can't say they're okay, but they're from tough Texas stock so they're dealing as best they can." Mary tugged on the too big sweater, USMS printed on the front in Navy, and she felt an uncomfortable jolt as she realized the reason that the sweats were so big.

They were Marshall's.

Tears stung her eyes and she wiped them away with sleeves that covered all but the very tips of her fingers.

A knock sounded at the door. "Ms. Shannon?"

"Yes." Mary and Brandi answered in unison.

The nurse smiled faintly, "Brandi Shannon?"

"Me," Brandi replied, raising her hand as though she was being called on by a teacher.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave now, they are wheeling Mr. Mann up from the surgical recovery suite," the nurse was gentle with her words and left quickly to give the two women a minute.

"Will you be okay Mary?" Brandi hugged her tightly.

"Go Squish," she pushed her sister out of the hug, "And please don't let Jinx know what's going on."

Brandi smiled remorsefully, "Mom could even make something like this all about her, huh?"

"Yeah," Mary sighed, "I just don't think I can deal with that right now. She's gotten better since she sobered up but still…"

"Don't worry," Brandi stood up straighter, determined green eyes meeting her sister's watery ones, "I'll deal with Mom, you just take care of Marshall." With that Brandi marched purposefully from the room, and a smile graced Mary's features for a handful of heartbeats before the flurry of anxious nurses passed the room, chattering nervously about the patient that the OR was sending up.

None of them sounded very hopeful, and Mary felt instantly cold, even with Marshall's sweatshirt on.

More nurses swarmed the room, prepping the bed and the machines around it, completely ignoring Mary's bewildered form watching them with wide, wild eyes. The caged lioness surrounded by ignorant zoo keepers, who she was being forced to tolerate, forced to trust with her keeper's life. Like she had been forced to trust Abigail. Forced to trust the woman to have his back when she wasn't there, because someone had too. Losing him was unthinkable. Unbearable.

Inside she was bristling and snarling at the women around her like a wild beast.

Were they good enough? Smart enough? Competent enough to trust with Marshall's life?

Why should she trust any of them to care for him? Because so far all the trust she had placed in anyone to care for Marshall had been betrayed. Narrowing her eyes she observed them like a predator, eyes keen for any signs of deficiency. Any reason to chase them from Marshall's room.

But all her attention was stolen away from the presumably lacking nurses as the transport aids arrived with Marshall on the gurney. She instantly determined that they had to be idiots as well, and watched them all critically as they transferred Marshall's long form, from one bed to another. The aids left with the other bed and the nurses hovered for several long moments, hooking him up to machine after machine, inserting IV's, and a changing his catheter as Mary averted her eyes in deference to her partner's prudish nature.

She had no doubt that Marshall would not take kindly to his nurses handling him as roughly as they were, and she was silently thankful that he was unconscious. She could just imagine him blushing furiously, looking away from them, and whimpering and growling at them to be more careful. Probably cursing as the particularly manly looking woman actually inserted the catheter.

She winced for him.

Finally the nurses left and Dr. Daniels came in, making notes on Marshall's chart and adjusting the machines accordingly.

"Is he going to be okay?" Mary asked nervously, moving to the side of the bed, brushing her fingers over the back of Marshall's hand.

The Doctor gave her a woeful smile, "He came through the surgery better than expected. We won't know if there's any kind of paralysis until he wakes up. He doesn't need a ventilator, which is a promising sign considering the bullet that was in his spine passed through his left lung. He'll still need breathing treatments to get his lung capacity back up and to prevent infection. But…"

He trailed off and Mary finished for him, "You're still worried that he won't wake up."

He nodded slowly, "His heart stopped three times, Ms. Shannon. We have no way of knowing if he suffered any brain damage, and even though we are getting slight spikes on the EKG consistent with a coma patient, there is no guarantee that he's even still in there."

She took Marshall's hand in hers, "He's still in there."

The man may have been about to question her or insist that it was impossible for her to know, but he stopped at the look in her eye, "Anyways, I was just coming to ensure that he was settled in and that everything on his charts is accurate. Dr. Walker is going to be taking over the case now that Mr. Mann is out of my ER."

She nodded slowly as the man left, releasing Marshall's hand long enough to drag her chair closer to the bed and dig through her duffel for the books that Brandi had brought. The first two, Volume E from her set of Encyclopedia and the dictionary, while probably suitable reading material for Marshall, were not something that she wanted to read to him, especially since he'd probably already read them each at least twice. Next was a beaten up vampire romance novel with a scuffed red cover, definitely not going to be reading that one to Marshall. Giving him a heart attack was not on the agenda. The next one she grabbed made her smile, it was a book that she hadn't read since high school, and one that Marshall was sure to appreciate. Opening the cover, Mary cleared her throat and began to read the unorthodox courtship of one Elizabeth Bennet aloud.

mMm

The chirping and vibrating of her phone woke her the next morning, and she groaned, almost wishing that the nurses had made her turn it off, but according to them it wouldn't mess with any equipment so she had been allowed to keep it on. She flipped open the phone and presses it to her ear without checking the caller ID.

"Hello?" she mumbled wiping sleep from her eyes with her free hand.

"Morning, sweet pea," the sound of Claire Mann's voice made her smile.

"Morning," she scooted closer to Marshall's bed.

"How's our boy this morning?" she asked.

"They brought him up from surgery late last night," Mary yawned, picking the book up off the floor. "The doctor's are…." she looked for a satisfactory word, "Cautiously optimistic?" The phrase was more like a question, and she heard Claire chuckle, a sound very similar to Marshall's own laugh, only infinitely more feminine, not that she'd ever admit to finding anything about Marshal Marshall Mann, manly.

"So they're being doctors, huh? Don't want to give anybody hope and then end up being wrong," the woman snorted, "Typical."

"He'll be up and around in no time," Mary grinned, uncertain which of them she was trying to comfort, "Whining like a big baby about his ouchies."

"Mann men are all big babies," Claire declared, and Mary snorted as she heard Seth Mann protesting his wife's words in the background. "Playing up booboos for hugs and cuddles." Mary could hear the smile in the woman's voice, obviously at memories of her boys and Mary tried to remember how many brothers Marshall had. Surely he had told her at one point or another? Mary shook her head, feeling inordinately bothered by not remembering how many siblings Marshall had, let alone knowing their names.

The line was quiet for a long moment, before Claire spoke, sounding more melancholy than Mary had ever heard her sound. "Could you put the phone by him?" she paused, "So I could talk to him, and just… hear him breathe…"

"Of course," Mary felt instantly guilty for not having thought about it before. The woman having to make the request to hear her own son breathe made Mary's heart clench painfully.

She put the phone by Marshall's ear, and the line was silent for a moment as the woman just listened to his long, ragged breathes. And then she was crying and talking, as Mary tried to tune out the loving words going from mother to son. Her own mother had barely cared when she's been shot, only wailing to anyone who would listen, how hard it was on _her_ to have her daughter in the hospital.

And here was this woman, so thankful just to hear her son _breathe_.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she pressed her face into the bed next to Marshall's hand, reaching up to wrap her hand around his. Tears not about the relationship that Marshall had with his mother that she could never hope to emulate with her own, but tears about just how wretchedly thankful she was just to hear her partner _breathe_. She could feel a sense of camaraderie with Marshall's mother, a sense of solidarity with this woman that she had never actually met, all based on the fact that this _man_, this wonderful, gentle, _man_, was precious to both of them.

That the sound his very breathe could cause them both to cry in relief.

She felt like such a softy.

_'I'll be better to him,'_ she vowed silently, tightening her grip on his hand, _'Better for him. A better friend. A better partner.'_

"Mary? Mary?" Claire's voice caught her attention, and she pulled the phone back to her ear, keeping her hand wrapped around Marshall's.

"Sorry," she apologized, "I got a little distracted."

"It's okay," the woman's very words were smiling, "I understand."

They talked for probably a half hour more when Stan showed up, and Mary explained that she had to go, but she'd call later with an update. Claire asked her to give Marshall a kiss for her and said as cheerful a goodbye as was possible given the situation.

Stan dropped into the other chair, rubbing his face with his hands, "The doctor seems both optimistic and pessimistic at the same time."

Mary nodded slowly in agreement before speaking, "He's going to be fine, Stan."

"I have no doubt," he agreed, "We know Marshall better than they do. We know he's too stubborn to die on us." He was quiet for a moment, "Detective Chaffe filed assault charges against you."

"I figured as much," Mary kept her eyes on Marshall's rising and falling chest. "Though she couldn't really claim that I put her in the emergency room since she was already there."

Stan shook his head chuckling, before his face became serious, "What I don't understand is why they put five rounds into Marshall, and not a single round was fired at the Detective."

"Marshall is afflicted with that southern honor code about protecting women and children first," Mary replied, remembering many a time that Marshall had put himself between her and a would be attacker.

"I saw the crime scene photos Inspector, the one shooter didn't have a bead on the Detective because Marshall was between them, but the other had a clear shot at her and went for Marshall instead." His irritation was rising, "The shoot out had to last at least a whole 60 seconds, how is it that a trained law enforcement agent didn't even have time to draw her weapon? Hell, she knew these men were dangerous, why didn't she draw her weapon before even entering the building?"

"I know how fast Marshall is, for those two to get off that many shots before he took them down, they must have been lying in wait and fired on the first one to come into sight." Her face was the picture of confusion, "Do you think that she's involved somehow?"

"I'd bet my badge on it."

mMm

**A/N:** Don't count on me updating this frequently all the time. Hehe. I had the day off from work and decided to take full advantage of it!

Honestly I didn't even realize where my plot was really heading until it happened, though I shouldn't be surprised because I freaking hate Abigail, and am thrilled with the idea of getting rid of her in the most horrific way possible. This story is going to have very little in the way of cases and criminal misdeeds and is more about the growing and changing relationships between the characters. I have a lot planned for Marshall and Mary, including much more 'zesty' (I freaking love that word) interactions, and a lot of this is just set up to get them where I want them.

Okay, question. What do you think about including Mary's season 4 pregnancy? Maybe still having it happen, but with a different baby-daddy(*cough* Marshall *couch*)? Writing it in with Mark (jerk looking for a sugar mama) as the sperm donor? Or nixing it all together? I'm kind of at a loss with what to do with this, as really I could work any of these options into the story.

Criticism and suggestions welcome!

Love Y'all,

DToB


	3. Stan the Man has a Plan

**Torn and Tattered Seams**

**Chapter 3: Stan the Man has a Plan**

**A/N: **Okay, first off, I love writing Marshall's mom. She's an established character that we know nothing about, other than she talks to Marshall daily, and named him Marshall because she didn't want him to be a Marshal. You know from the way Marshall is that his mom has to be the counter balance to Seth Mann, but I firmly believe that she has to be badass in her own way. One, to have put up with Seth for so long, and two, for raising Marshall and his siblings (I can't remember how many Mann children there are or even if they directly mentioned it but I already have a plan of my own for number, names, occupations). She's also the perfect support system for our beloved Marshals with what is to come, and gives Mary the 'mommy' interactions she so desperately needs without putting Jinx so totally out of character that it would be laughable.

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own a damn thing.

mMm

It had been 6 days, 18 hours, 21minutes, and 18, 19, 20, seconds since Marshall had been shot, and Mary was losing her damn mind. Her patience was all gone halfway through day one, and the several conversations a day with Claire Mann, and dinner every night with her sister (and sometimes Peter) in the hospital cafeteria was all that had kept her from killing someone.

That someone. Most likely Detective Abigail Chaffe.

The same Abigail Chaffe that hadn't existed until she moved to Albuquerque 6 months ago. And who hadn't been seen since reporting her assault by one US Marshal Mary Shannon at APD some 6 days, 10 hours, and 12 minutes ago.

To say that Mary was pissed would be the understatement of the year.

Her first reaction to the news had been to yell and throw a bed pan across the room, nearly nailing Eleanor, the unfortunate messenger, in the head. Her understandable conclusion being that Abigail was in WITSEC either as a witness or undercover inspector. But Eleanor, being totally nonplussed by a 'Mary-Tantrum' had caught the taller woman by the arm and jerked her around to face her, informing her in that calm way of hers that the identity hadn't been created by WITSEC, the FBI, or any other government agency for that matter.

Just good, old-fashioned bribery and fake records.

It wasn't even a very good fake identity, according to Eleanor, just enough to scrape by APD's pathetic version of a background check. They hadn't even called Lubbock PD to verify her letters of recommendation. They had just looked at the letters on cheap letterhead and took them as gospel.

Mary growled and grabbed another case file, flipping it open with irritation, Stan who was sitting in the other hospital chair ignored her mood flipping a page in the file in his lap. They were going over every case that Marshall had been involved in since he joined the USMC, unfortunately he had been a very busy boy.

"This is hopeless!" Mary growled, rubbing her face with her hands and tugging at her limp blonde hair, "We don't even know what we're looking for!"

"A connection, Mary, all we need is one little connection and we have her!" he was no more hopeful than she, but knew that this was the best place to start looking.

"We don't even know who the fuck she really is!" Mary slammed the file shut and grabbed another one, practically ripping the folder in half as she opened it.

"Natalie Nichcova," Eleanor said, entering the room, holding a laptop to her chest. Sitting the computer on the stack of case file boxes she flipped it open and the screen burst to life, Abigail's overly perky face grinning back at them.

"God, she wore even more porno eye shadow back then," Mary mumbled, "Never trust a girl in porno eye shadow, unless she's on cinemax after 11."

"You're disgusting," Eleanor shook her head before changing the topic, "Natalie Nichcova is the daughter of Giovanni Nichcova, the head of that human smuggling ring that the Marshal Service busted in Colorado 10 years ago." She looked at the other two grinning, "And guess who put a bullet in the fat bastard's head when he opened fire on the USMC team?"

"Marshall," Mary stated matter-o-factly, "She must have been hiding somewhere nearby and saw what happened. Saw Marshall plug her dad and swore revenge. Idiot. I'd kiss the man for killing my father, and he was just a bank robber. Her dad sold small children to pimps."

"But why wait till now to make an attempt on Marshall?" Stan spoke, more thinking out loud than asking a question, "Why not while his partner was on vacation? Or while she had him in bed? I know for a fact that he's been staying at her place a couple of nights a week."

Mary bit her lip and turned her face away at Stan's words. She didn't know what made her sicker. Thinking of her partner being killed while she was in Mexico with Faber, on her back instead of watching his because she was afraid of what he was offering. Or him being killed in bed with that harpy. Or just him being in bed with her at all.

"Ugh, I'm going to be sick," she groaned, lurching to her feet and rushing for the bathroom, her knees hitting the tile only seconds before losing her lunch. Slowly struggling to her feet she rinsed out her mouth and reentered the room, still feeling uncomfortably nauseous, "She must have found something else that her cover was good for other than getting to Marshall."

"You don't think he told her about WITSEC?" Eleanor asked, horror plain on her face.

"He would never do that!" Mary shouted more loudly than necessary, glaring daggers at Eleanor.

"I never really thought he would," Eleanor held her hands up in surrender, "The thought just popped into my head. Worst case scenario, you know."

"What if she just figured it out, without Marshall saying anything?" Stan spoke thoughtfully, but then shook his head, "We'd have had a massive disaster by now, witnesses compromised on a giant scale. We do need to run a threat assessment though, and keep our ears to the ground for any Intel on known enemies or associates of our witnesses looking for them in New Mexico."

Mary suddenly jolted, her spine straight with apprehension, "What if she's trying to use Marshall to find the other US Marshal's involved in the raid?"

Stan's eyes widened, "She's already tried to off him, so that must mean that whatever info she wanted, she got."

"Why call the ambulance then?" Eleanor was tapping her foot in that irritating way of hers, when the puzzle pieces didn't quite fit.

"When none of the shots were kill shots she must have panicked," Mary had her arms crossed over her chest, "Finishing him off herself would have blown her cover to pieces. It'd be so much easier to get close to the other Marshal's as a cop investigating the shooting of one of their own. She probably figured that he'd died from his injuries anyway and calling for an ambulance would take the suspicion off of her, and even if he didn't, he'd be out of it for a while and she could finish him off at her convenience."

"I'll call into HQ with her name, alias, and get them a photo and physical description. She's probably on her way to make sure the others are taken care of, before she makes a move on Marshall. We need to move him, and fast." He turned to Mary, "Can you go to his place and pack him some stuff?"

"Yeah," she nodded, "We going into full lockdown and relocation mode?"

"Affirmative. Now get going," Stan was already dialing up HQ as she left the room, the nerves in her gut getting worse and worse the farther she got from her partner. _'Wherever he's going, you're going too,'_ she told herself, _'Stan wouldn't separate the two of you now, not like this.'_

Sliding into the mustang, her stomach churned and she swallowed a mouthful of bile. Trying vainly to soothe her nerves as she drove down familiar streets towards Marshall's home.

The pretty little one story with the normally perfectly manicured lawn looked shaggy and unkempt, and Mary frowned at the lawn as she stomped across it, ignoring Marshall's meandering path as she always did. Stan had had the house re-keyed after their initial suspicions about Marshall's girlfriend, though Mary knew that he had yet to give the woman a key, and she struggled with the practically virgin lock, the key sticking and needing to be shimmied for several long moments before it would actually turn.

Heading into the house she went straight to his bedroom and pulled out the large, military style duffel that he used on extended trips as well as the small rolling suitcase that was frequently his airplane carry-on, throwing both onto the bed. She filled the duffel with clothes, smiling at his ridiculous collection of pajamas, and stuffed all four of his pairs of cowboy boots into the end of the bag. Then began the process of collecting the personal items she knew were most precious to the man. His collection of hard earned rodeo buckles that he kept in his night stand and thought no one knew about, the small stuffed horse that he had had since he was a baby, and hid in the back of the top shelf in his closet. A few other trinkets and his favorite antique books were added to the bag before she headed to the living room to collect his photo albums.

Three thick volumes, hidden in the very back of the bottom shelf of his entertainment center, DVD's were spread on the floor around her as she cleared out the front of the shelf, having to practically wiggle half was onto the shelf herself just to reach them. Fingertips touched the edge of one of the albums as she wiggled her way a little bit farther forward, crowing softly in victory as her fingers closed around the edges and she pulled the albums free from where they were wedged. Sliding backwards she pulled the albums with her and was about to stand, her prizes clutched to her chest as the sickening sound of the hammer of a revolver being pulled back clicked through the air, and she felt the cold barrel press against the back of her head. The photo albums slid from her grip, and she went stock still.

"Turn around," the female voice growled, sounding slightly nasal from a broken nose, and all traces of the fake southern accent gone.

"Natalie," Mary spoke evenly, meeting the other woman's gaze as she sat back on her heels.

"Clever bitch," the woman's smile was bitter and vicious, and Mary was trying to remain calm as she thought out her options, her main sidearm was in Marshall's room, sitting on the bed with her badge and phone, her back-up was still in the lock box under the seat of her car. She knew where all 14 of the firearms in Marshall's house were, but the only one not locked up was the shotgun under his bed.

No guns then, unless she could wrestle the flashy revolver out of Natalie's hands without being killed or seriously wounded. She fought back the grimace that wanted to spread across her face, this was going to be messy, and not the good kind of messy that her partner had once promised her, the kind of messy that forever ruined the carpet and property values.

The brunette sneered at her passive face, "I really wish I could have blown that bastard's head off while I fucked him senseless, but I'll have to content myself with putting a bullet in your brain." She backed up a step to avoid the inevitable splatter of blood and grey matter, her lips pulling back over her teeth, a dark laugh escaping her, "You know if I had really been interested in him, I'd have been kind of hurt by the way he calls for you in his sleep. Like you're the one thing in this world that he's ever wanted." Her sneer became a snarl, "Pathetic."

The woman was cocky and green, fueled by rage and just enough experience with a weapon to qualify on a range, and Mary saw the opening as the other woman relaxed slightly, her balance imperfect as she rested the majority of her weight back on her left foot. Her feet were too far apart, her stance sloppy, and Mary launched herself off her knees, crashing into the woman's legs, for once having the advantage of being bigger than her opponent and capitalizing on it. Her arm thrust upward, knocking the revolver out of the woman's hand and it skittered across the floor, and under the couch, out of reach. Natalie tried to grapple with her, tried with flip her over, but Mary was on her like a wildcat. Catching the other woman's long hair with one hand and using it to smash her already abused face into the end table next to the couch.

Mary rammed her face into it again, breaking the table to bits, and Natalie's fingers closed around one of the tables solid wooden legs, using it like a club, catching Mary across her shoulder blades with it. The blonde exhaled heavily, the wind knocked out of her by the blow, hitting the floor heavily, her grip loosening on the other woman's hair. The pretend detective squirmed free, crawling across the floor on her hands and knees, going for the gun that had slid under the couch. Mary grabbed the woman's ankle and hauled her back, fingers sinking into the back of her clothes like claws, panting as she still struggled to reclaim her lost breath.

Natalie jerked away from her, kicking out at Mary, catching her in the shoulder, but Mary lunged forward in spite of the blow, locking an arm around the woman's neck, pinning her body with her legs. She held the choke hold tight and unrelenting as the woman struggled for breath, and as Abigail-now Natalie slumped in her arms, she faintly considered just maintaining the hold for a few moments more, letting the traitorous bitch suffocate, or the subtle twist of her arms that would snap her neck.

But she let her go. Death was to good for her, too easy. She deserved to suffer in jail.

Cuffing the woman, Mary flipped her phone open. It was time to tell their fearless leader that his plan really wasn't necessary any more.

mMm

Just four hours later, she found herself back in Marshall's hospital room, no longer surrounded by case files. Stan and Eleanor having given up their hovering to head home. Mary was struck with the urge to call Claire Mann, to let her know what happened, but she stopped herself, it was the middle of the night and the woman needed her rest.

The news could wait until tomorrow.

Pulling her legs up onto the chair in front of her, she rested her chin on her knees and watched Marshall's slow, even breathing, practically hypnotized by the rhythmic motion. Only to be jarred from her haze by the sudden twitching of first his hand, then his arm. Jumping to her feet, she rushed to his side, both her hands closing around one of his.

"Marshall? Marshall, it's me." Her voice was soft and she watched in rapt wonder as the muscled along his jaw and around his eyes began to twitch as well, "Come on numbnuts, just open those pretty blue eyes of yours."

Moments later, slow languorous blinks revealed pale blue eyes and his eyelids blinked out of sync as he struggled to focus. "Mare?" his voice was harsh and dry, but still music to her ears, and tears were streaming freely down her cheeks.

"It's me, I'm right here," her voice was as full of tears as her eyes, and she bit her lip to smother a joyous laugh, "Welcome back to the waking world. You scared the shit out of me you big idiot."

"Mare?" panic was becoming clear on his features, and she ran a hand through his hair and along his cheek trying to soothe him, but nothing was helping. He tried to pull his face away from her, and for a moment she thought that he was still asleep, having a nightmare with his eyes open.

"Mare?" he locked eyes with her, dispelling any thoughts of waking nightmares, "I… I… can't feel my legs…"

mMm

**A/N: **Okay, wow, I am a bitch. I don't do cliffhangers often, but shit when I do, I don't fool around, huh? This may seem like an end to the major action, but this is where all the drama truly begins. It's gonna be rough waters ahead for our favorite Marshals, but I'm still grinning about the evil-girlfriend-hooker-bitch getting hers. ^_^

I'm still undecided about the Mary/baby issue, so any input would be appreciated! As well as any other criticism or suggestions that you guys have.

Love Y'all,  
>DToB<p> 


	4. Becoming the Keeper

**Torn and Tattered Seams**

**Chapter 4: Becoming the Keeper**

**A/N: **Well after a long discussion with my mom (my sounding board for most of my writing projects, and my editor for my novel), I think that I have finally come to a conclusion about the season 4 pregnancy issue. I'm not going to come right out and tell you what I decided, but you'll probably figure it out pretty quickly.

Oh and you all have my mother to thank for some upcoming physical therapy zest. I probably have the only mother in the world who actually encourages her daughter to write smut…

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own jack…

mMm

He was asleep again, and she watched him with rapt attention, her one arm twined with his, digits twisted together, as the fingers of her free hand traced along his cheeks and jaw, part of her abjectly fascinated in the difference between his face now, fully relaxed, and how it had been only a short time before. He had been so angry, so ferociously upset, as he tried to struggle from the bed, as though standing up would return all feeling to his lower limbs, and she had had to clamber onto the small hospital bed to help restrain him as the nurses rushed to add sedative to his IV. He had thrown one of the large male nurses across the room in his panicked anger, the other broad shouldered men becoming wary as they saw the largest of their number flung like a wad of toilet paper, and Marshall lashed out at any of them that tried to get close.

But she had been able to slip past his blows, climbing across his lap, straddling him to hold him in place, and he had grasped onto her tightly, pulling her to him almost protectively with one arm as he still batted the nurses away with the other. It had taken several long, tense seconds, but she had coaxed his other arm around her and away from the traumatized nurses.

Once he had had something to hold onto, _her_ to hold onto, he had settled. Still not calm, but also not volatile enough to attack the nurses trying to sedate him.

He would never hit her.

Never hurt her.

And she had used it to her advantage. The very thought of using his protectiveness against him sickened her, not wanting to be at all likened to Abigail-Natalie, who had used Marshall's protective nature to put him in the line of fire. To kill him.

Taking her hand from his face, she fished her cell phone from her pocket and flipped through her contacts for the cell number that she had been trying to force herself to call since Marshall's brief return to consciousness.

"Hey Sweet Pea," Claire's gentle voice reached her ears and she instantly calmed. It was amazing the effect that the woman's voice had on her.

"I wish you could be here," Mary worried her lip between her teeth, Marshall's voice in her head chiding her for the action, telling her that one day she'd end up biting her lip off. "He woke up for a few minutes. Went from confused to totally ape shit in all of 30 seconds when he realized he couldn't feel his legs…"

Claire groaned, "I wish I could too, but this stupid joint task force… All the boys and half of their wives are directly involved. Seth hates being trapped here but he's a consultant, and this whole debacle is based off of one of his old cases..." She growled, deep in her throat, "Between my own involvement and watching the grandkids, I can't get away either…" Claire sighed, "Do they know anything about the paralysis? Is it permanent? The cause?"

"Marshall's got some swelling in his spine," she tightened her grip on his arm and her phone, "The Dr. believes that as the swelling goes down that he'll regain feeling, he's still got a little bit of feeling in his left foot, and right hip, though his ribs on the right side are partially numb. He's going to need a lot of physical therapy to help the swelling go down and to keep his muscles as strong as possible, and he'll need even more once feeling returns…" She choked back a sob that had snuck up on her, "He got so mad when he realized he couldn't feel his legs… He chunked one of the male nurses clear across the room… I don't even want to think how he's going to react when he finds out the full extent of his condition, or the events leading him here…"

"He won't hate you Mary," Claire hit the nail on the head, the pit of fear in Mary's gut, "He'll be angry, and difficult, and hurt. But he won't blame you."

"I'm his partner," she insisted, angry tears stinging her eyes, "I should have been there." She watched Marshall's still face, before wiping tears away with their twined arms. "So how about those Yankees?" Claire took the change of topic for what it was and allowed Mary to steer the conversation to less emotionally charged topics.

They spoke for several more minutes before she felt eyes on her, looking up, green met blue and she felt her heart squeeze painfully. "Hey," she whispered at him before speaking into the phone, "Guess who just woke up from his nap."

Stretching her arm out and pressing the phone to his ear, she watched his confusion clear as he spoke, his voice dry and quiet, "Mom?"

She couldn't hear what Claire said, but the heartbreakingly gentle smile on his lips sent shivers through her. Watching his lips move in familiar shapes as he spoke to his mother, Mary had to fight back tears, seeing his alive and talking, sitting up slightly with pillows against his back, she felt relief rush through her veins. Hearing him breathing had reassured her, but this, seeing him, hearing him though she paid no heed to the words spoken, was like a healing balm on the tiny little cuts to her insides, and it soothed her twisted worried, gut.

He finished talking to his mother, and Mary spoke a quick goodbye to the woman before she hung up and turned her full attention back to Marshall, who was looking around the room in confusion. "Where's Abigail?" then panic, "Is she okay? Did she get shot too?"

Mary's whole body felt like ice, and her gut was tight and heavy like lead, "She's in county lockup." Her answer was terse, and she could instantly tell that Marshall had mistaken the meaning of his words.

"Questioning suspects," he surmised, "When will she be back?" He spied the Jane Austen novel on his bedside table, "Was she reading to me?" The faint smile and far off look on his face, made her entire body hurt, and rage surged to the surface.

Bristling like a wild cat, she snarled, "I was reading to you Doofus! And she's in county lockup because she's a criminal!" She was breathing heavily and dropped his hand, pushing it away with unnecessary force, "That bitch tried to have you killed! And was going to kill me herself!"

"It can't be," he was blinking rapidly, what he did when he was really, really confused, "This has to be a mistake."

"Oh of course," Mary snarked, "I must have mistake what she meant when she put the barrel of a fucking revolver to my head! She must have just wanted to show off her new toy!" Jumping to her feet, Mary paced the room like a cornered lioness, "She must have been joking when she said that putting a bullet in my brain was a consolation prize, because she didn't get the chance to pull a black widow on you and take your head off while you two were going heels to Jesus!"

"Abigail is a sweet and loving woman," Marshall shouted, the machines he was hooked to making unsettling beeps, "There's no way that she would do that!"

"So I'm lying to you?" it was like a punch to her gut. Her green eyes were icy, "If you can't even trust me enough to believe me, maybe I should have let her shoot me." Venom dripped from her words, "Maybe you'd fucking believe me after the CSI techs were done scrapping my brains off of your photo albums."

"Photo albums?" he was angry still, but his words were quiet.

"Yeah," she growled, "Detective Abigail Chaffe is the alias of one Natalie Nichcova, who was hell bent on getting her revenge on you and the Marshal Service Team who raided her father's human trafficking business. She had an especially vicious hard on for you after she saw you put one round between her father's eyes during a firefight. Stan and I were in the process of packing you up and relocating you to a safer hospital when she caught me gather up some personal things for you." Lips pealed back and Mary prepared to dig in the spurs, her standard fighting tactic of hurt them as much as possible before they hurt you. "She kept you alive to get info about your last posting, find out about the other Marshals that were involved with the raid, she used you Marshall." The final dig of the spur, "And your previous partner is dead because of it." Something she had recently learned from Stan, something that they had agreed to keep from Marshall for the time being.

She regretted it the instant she said it, but instead of apologizing, she jutted out her chin, and crossed her arms over chest. Challenging.

"Get out of my room," his voice was quiet, before he locked cold angry eyes on her his next words roared out between snarling lips, "Get the FUCK out of my room!"

Mary made it just outside his room before she collapsed, sliding down the wall next to the door, sobbing and pulling herself into as tiny a ball as possible.

Inside the room, she could hear Marshall sobbing as well.

mMm

It was nearly four hours after the fight, and Mary still sat on the floor outside Marshall's room, knees pulled to her chest and arms wrapped around her legs, staring at the wall with such intensity that the nurses were surprised that it hadn't burst into flames. Mary had cried for nearly ten whole minutes before she had forced herself to quiet and listen to Marshall's wracking sobs, her body aching, each cry like a punch in the face or a stab to the gut.

She had never heard him cry like this, and certainly not over her. But here he was, heart wrenching sobs breaking free of his lips over Abigail Chaffe, a woman who didn't even really exist, nothing more than an alias designed to hurt him as much as possible.

There was a part of her, however small, that understood that he was as mad at himself as he was at her, the only thing was, she knew that he'd forgive her. Probably way sooner than she deserved, but he would never forgive himself. That was the essence of why she had planned to keep his former partner's death at the hands of a Nichcova hit man from him for as long as possible. The hit man had flipped on Natalie as soon as the detectives had had him in the interrogation room and had relayed some pretty despicable things that he had been told by his new boss. It had been a game to her to laugh over the phone about Marshall's eccentricities, to degrade his abilities, to belittle his prowess as a man. Mary had read through the transcripts, gritting her teeth at every small penis jab, every joke about her partner's stamina, and the brutally vulgar descriptions of his technique.

She could never let him see those transcripts.

And what was worse, while she longed to defend him, to jump to his aid, to beat the living daylights out of Natalie and the Detectives who she had spied snickering at the papers as they read the hit man's statements, she didn't know how to go about it. For the first time in her entire life, she didn't know how to confront a situation of someone attacking a precious person in her life.

When little boys had called Brandi stupid in elementary school, she had beaten them all to a pulp and then started checking Brandi's homework every night and helping her study. When one of her mother's boyfriends had started smacking Jinx around, Mary broke his nose and called the cops. When someone bullied a witness of hers she dealt with them in the most brutal fashion possible.

But she had no idea what to do with this.

If she told them all off, or got violent with them, they'd either think the rumors about the two of them sleeping together were true, which would no doubt embarrass Marshall even more, or they'd tease him behind his back about having a woman fight his battles.

However, the most horrific thing about it was that she had no idea if the things that Natalie had told the hit man really were lies. What if it was the truth? She leaned backwards, banging her head against the wall. What if he really was 'petite'? What if he had the staying power of an overexcited teenage boy? What if he had no rhythm and fumbled around, having no idea what he was doing?

She gave her head a particularly vicious smash to the wall, hating herself for thinking those things.

She had seen how her partner filled out both his tight wrangler jeans and his goofy pajamas. He could outlast her by miles during an operation or on one of their runs through Albuquerque. And the man was a human fount of knowledge, certainly there was a filing cabinet in his brain full of carnal information. She could only imagine the things that he knew how to do, and she was far from inexperienced herself.

_'I bet we could make some serious fireworks, and probably break a bed frame or two,'_ a small smile spread across her lips at the thought. The carnal side of Marshall was something she wanted to explore, something she had always wanted to explore, but she had always stopped herself.

Marshall was the kind of man a girl committed to for the long haul, he was built to be a protector, a provider, a _father_.

And that terrified her.

It was something that she constantly forced from her mind, not wanting to think beyond her insular, lonely bubble of existence. But he had snuck in bit by bit, and she found random thoughts slipping in, past her filters and walls.

What would he taste like? Would his lips be soft and sweet, would his breath have the tang of coffee after his third cup?

What would his hands feel like on her? Would he be firm and strong, manhandling her slightly as he became aroused, losing some of his gentleness as excitement quickened his breath and pulse.

Would a child they had created have his eyes or hers?

She jarred from her musings at that, finding herself rubbing her flat stomach with one hand, and her face with the other. "God I need to stop thinking like that," she groaned to herself, "Now is not the time for this. He needs me more than some figment-baby that'll never happen." Tears stung her eyes as she forced her mind to clear, not wanting to give up the fleeting image of a little blonde baby with big blue, Marshall Mann eyes.

"Ugh," she mumbled banging her head into the wall again. Closing her eyes, all was quiet in the hall, and she could faintly make out Marshall's gentle breathing. Still asleep.

His even, soothing breaths had nearly lulled her to sleep when she heard him whimper. Her entire body stilled, holding her breath as she listened carefully, silence. As she was about to relax against the wall, maybe take a nap, another, much louder, whimper reached her ears. Mary was on her feet and in his room before she thought about what she was doing, closing the distance between them, she stilled just short of taking his hand in hers when she realized that it was her name he was whimpering.

_"You know if I had really been interested in him, I'd have been kind of hurt by the way he calls for you in his sleep. Like you're the one thing in this world that he's ever wanted."_

"Mary, Mare, Mare, Mary-y-y," he repeated it like a mantra, occasionally putting extra emphasis on the vowels, drawing her name out like it was a plea, but for what she didn't know.

"It's okay Marshall," she took his hand in both of hers, leaning forward to press her lips to his forehead, "I'm right here. Everything is going to be okay."

His whimpering slowly quieted and stopped, and she pulled back to look at him, flinching when green eyes met fully awake blue ones. Closing her eyes to escape his gaze, she pressed her forehead to his, an apology building on her lips, but she couldn't force herself to speak it. So instead she did the next best thing, something she knew would mean more to him than a mumbled apology.

"When I was five, my dad brought me home this beautiful doll. Porcelain, hand painted face, and a flounced silk and lace dress. I didn't play with dolls but I loved it more than anything because my dad had given it to me. I put it on my dresser with all my other treasures. Little toys that daddy had gotten for me, none as nice as the doll, but I loved them all." She paused, gripping Marshall's hand a little tighter, "That doll was the first thing I ever hawked at a pawn shop. I loved it, but I gave it up, and because of that, my little sister got to eat for a week." A long breath that ghosted over his face, was followed by a much softer admission, "I still think about that stupid doll sometimes when I see ones like it in a store."

The admission was Mary for, _'I'm sorry.'_

"Did you know that dolls are widely considered to be the oldest plaything? The first ones being the Egyptian paddle doll, dating all the way back to 2000BC, though ones with articulated forms and moveable limbs didn't come about until much later in Greece."

Marshall for, _'So am I.'_

mMm

**A/N: **Okay, well I wanted to have this chapter up much earlier, but I ended up having several overnighters at work, followed by an impromptu road trip to Shreveport, Louisiana to visit a friend of mine. This really isn't quiet what I had planned for this chapter but it kind of got away from me. Ugh, next chapter will clear up a lot of stuff with Marshall's injuries, and hopefully get the ball moving along to the meat of the story. I started writing this with a very clear idea of where I wanted to go with it, it's just that getting there is proving to need a lot more set up than I thought.

I just had to throw in some Mary being Mary though, both in her over-escalation in the fight with Marshall and her slightly spastic musings. She's a little fucked up in the head to begin with, and everything with Marshall is just making it worse. We're going to get to a point where she realizes that she needs just as much healing as he does, and her epiphany will be glorious. :)

Love Y'all,

DToB


	5. Waking Moments and Morphine

**Torn and Tattered Seams**

**Chapter 5: Waking Moments and Morphine**

**A/N: **Well, due to the drive to and from Shreveport making me feel like I've been beaten with sticks (thanks stupid, crappy Louisiana roads!) I have gotten a reprieve from today's father's day fence building adventure, so you guys get a new chapter! Hopefully before IPS comes on tonight, I'd like to be able to get some sleep before work Monday. Hehe.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own it… If I did… well let's just say that it probably wouldn't be able to be aired on USA… maybe HBO, but definitely not USA… We'd be seeing way to much of Marshall's physique for that…

mMm

The next five days were a mix bag of personalities as far as Marshall was concerned. They had taken him completely off the sedation, but had had to move him onto stronger pain meds. It was a win-lose situation, he was awake more, but made sense less. Mary was amused to find that despite Marshall's high tolerance for pain, his tolerance for pain meds was even lower than hers. The first time he woke up after the nurses had hooked up the morphine pain pump, a dose having just been dispensed from the machine, he blinked at her for several long moments, his big blue eyes glassy.

"At its closest perigees, it would take 2,004,499,435.525714 twizzlers to reach the moon, and at its furthest perigees it would take 2,287,401,572.47 twizzlers."

"Twizzlers?" she asked, one eyebrow raised as she watched him become distracted by the pain button in his hand that he hadn't noticed before. He pushed it curiously and the machine dispensed an additional amount of morphine. He pushed it again, not realizing what it had done, and Mary was instantly thankful that the machine would only dispense extra medication once every few hours, or else her partner would probably OD out of curiosity.

"Strawberry twizzlers," he clarified.

"You're high," she informed him, doing nothing to hide the slight smirk on her face.

Marshall peered over the side of the hospital bed, "I'm not high. I'm only about 5.14 twizzlers above the floor. That's not high at all, I'm 10.5714 twizzlers tall." He had grinned then, completely unguarded, a smile the likes of which she had never seen on his face, and while her heart jumped and fluttered, her stomach felt as though it had dropped out of her. In all the years that they had been partners, best friends, how had she never seen that smile?

Later that day at lunch, he abandoned twizzlers as a measure of distance in exchange for pudding cups as a measure of weight, and she had growled threateningly at him under her breath when he told her, her own weight in pudding cups. Chocolate pudding cups to be exact, because he had grinningly told her that nothing about her was vanilla.

God, she needed chocolate after this. Stoner Marshall was as nerve-wracking as he was amusing.

mMm

"You have really nice breasts," Three days of Morphine-Marshall had not prepared her for that.

"Umm, thanks," she mumbled, suddenly very mindful of the sports bra and t-shirt she was wearing with her too big sweats.

"I was always more of an ass man, myself," he seemed thoughtful, "But yours breasts are really, _really_ nice. Bigger and fuller than Abigail's… Natalie's… Whoever the hell she is."

"That's really sweet of you to say, Marsall," she placated, fighting down the thrill of his words, and the embarrassment of his praise. Men had told her that she had a nice rack before, but this was Marshall. Somehow his words meant more than all the rest combined.

"Nice ass too," he grinned, and Mary swallowed nervously.

_'I will not jump my partner in ICU, I will not jump my partner in ICU, I will not jump my partner in ICU,'_ she chanted in her head, embarrassed by how worked up his simple, drug-induced words had gotten her. The nurses had upped his dosage an hour ago, getting him ready for the doctor to check his wounds, and then they were to be cleaned and re-bandaged. Mary could remember how badly getting her gunshot wound cleaned had hurt, and she was glad for her partner's increase in pain medicine before the procedure. After the wounds were tended to, he was going to be scanned, poked, and prodded to check his innards, and if those results came back clean, he would start getting weaned off of the IV pain killers, and put onto a regimen of pain pills in preparation of sending him home.

The thought of Marshall leaving the hospital terrified her.

Here, he had a fleet of nurses and doctors to care for him, at home, all he would have was her, and the physical therapist that would be coming everyday to get him started on his recovery.

The doctor came in at that moment, saving her from any further embarrassment, three nurses behind him, and she went to leave.

"Don't go," Marshall caught her arm, wincing as the motion pulled at his stitches. She looked back at his pleading eyes, "Please don't leave me." He was talking about more than just this little check up, she knew him well enough to see that.

The panic in his eyes, the fear of being alone.

"Never," she told him, moving back to his side.

Mary was a hovering pest during the exam. She stayed out of the way, near Marshall's head, back nearly pressed against the wall, where she had squeezed between the bed and the monitors, one hand running through his hair soothingly as the Nurses stripped him of his gown, none too concerned about preserving his dignity, and Mary had turned her eyes heavenward as the Doctor adjusted the sheet over his hips in an absent minded attempt at decency.

Abigail had lied. Good god had she lied. How had he not split that little woman in two?

She shimmied slightly, rubbing her thighs together uncomfortably, trying to focus on the Doctor's words, instead of the memories of what she had just seen. _'I will not jump my partner in ICU, I will not jump my partner in ICU.'_

"These are closing up very well," the Doctor seemed very pleased, and a little surprised, "I never would have expected to see this much improvement in such a short period of time, and there's absolutely no sign of infection. We're going to keep you on preventative antibiotics just in case. Three of those rounds did pierce your intestines after all." He peeled back the gauze over the stitches just above Marshall's heart, what would have been a kill shot if he had only been two inches taller, and looked pleased as he cleaned gently over the blue surgical thread. Marshall winced, and Mary rubbed firmer circles into his scalp with the tips of her fingers. He moved to the one just below Marshall's sternum, the shot that had caused all the trouble when it lodged in his spine and Mary watched intently as the Doctor removed a few staple from either end of the incision that had been made around the gunshot wound. The very ends of the wound were already sealed up, leaving a pink scar in it's wake.

"This one is healing exceptionally well, all things considered. You were very luck that it only caused a partial lung collapse, having to put a chest tube in would have been very uncomfortable given the location of the puncture." Mary's fingers tightened in Marshall's hair, images of a gas station flashing before her eyes. She could still feel the pocket knife in her hand, and the radiator tubing as she forced it into the cut. She was shaking, and faintly aware of a few wayward tears slipping from her eyes, and she shuddered, jarring herself from the flashback. Therapy had helped, as much as she hated to admit it, but moments still snuck up on her when she remembered the terrifying certainty that she was going to lose her partner. That there was nothing she could do to save him.

"Well," the doctor concluded, as the nurses finished cleaning and bandaging Marshall's chest, "Barring anything negative on your scans this afternoon, we can get you started with physical therapy, and if they clear you, you can be out of here in as few as 6 days. Maybe sooner if your pain stays manageable once we get you onto oral pain meds."

"That soon?" Mary's voice was shaky.

"Mr. Mann is a very proficient healer, and in exceptional health," the Doctor soothed, as the Nurses redressed Marshall in a fresh gown, "It makes little sense to keep him in the hospital longer than he needs. He will need extensive physical therapy, but nothing that can't be handled as an outpatient. Barring any complications with his back and innards, but we'll know more after his scans."

The Doctor and Nurses left, and Mary stared fixedly at where they had been a moment before. "Mare?" Marshall asked quietly, "Are you okay?"

She shook her head to clear her thoughts, "Yeah, I'm fine doofus. Nothing I can't handle."

He didn't seem all that convinced.

mMm

Mary was forced to wait in Marshall's room while they took him downstairs for his scans. She paced, and fidgeted, sent Marshall's mother a quick text to let her know what was going on. The entire Mann Clan was thoroughly entrenched into the joint task force by this point, most of them on the road or stationed in various offices to relay information to other team members. They couldn't call out or receive any calls that weren't business related, though Claire and Seth had both told her to call them immediately if something went wrong, but other than that to text Claire updates on a regular basis so she could keep the family in the loop. Only the extreme Mann sense of honor and duty had kept them all doing their job instead of being on the first flight to Albuquerque to squeeze too many people into a too small hospital room and hover around the family's youngest son while he healed.

Claire had told her just the night before, the final night before the task force operation began in earnest and they would be out of direct communication, that as soon as they were done with the mission, that her and Seth (and probably most of their children) would be on a flight to New Mexico. The thought made Mary nervous, having all those Manns in one place could potentially end in disaster, and she really didn't want to have to go toe to toe with any of Marshall's family, namely his brothers (there were 6 of them for god's sake) for causing Marshall unneeded stress.

The end of the conversation was the most vivid in her mind, the woman's words so gentle and almost pleading. _"Or the two of you could come here, Sweet Pea," the woman had said, sounding as nervous making the offer as Mary was receiving it, "A little Texas can go a long way to heal the hurts of the body and soul. And we would love to have Marshall home. We'd love to have both of you here. Marshall may be my gentle son, but he is still a Mann, in both senses of the word, and he can be just as difficult and stubborn as his father and older brothers." Claire had paused, "I know my boy. He's hurt, physically, mentally, and emotionally. He will say things that will hurt you, things he doesn't really mean. I don't want this to burn you out, use you up. You can only defend yourself against someone you love for so long before it begins to eat at you. We want to help you take care of him. Help take care of you."_

_"I don't know what to say," Mary had answered honestly._

_"Just think about it Sweet Pea."_

Mary shook her head and sat down heavily in the hard hospital chair, staring at the wall. She hadn't known what to say, hadn't known what to think. People caring about Marshall was nothing new. Everyone who met him, loved him, he was just that kind of person, though few knew him beyond that superficial 'awww shucks, good-old boy' aura that he gave off, an odd mix with his intelligence and insight. But Mary had seen all sides of him, could understand even more acutely than most just how much those closest to him cared, how fiercely he cared.

But people caring about her was still strange.

She had gotten used to Marshall caring about her, and even Brandi's new found sense of compassion. But to hear that his family cared, wanted to help, even though they didn't really know her outside of her conversations with Claire and what Marshall had told them, had never actually met her with the exception of Seth. It was mind boggling. That despite the fact that Marshall was so hurt, they were worried about what caring for him would do to _her_. It was humbling, and part of her came to a sudden understanding about what made Marshall, Marshall.

He was from good stock, good people. Compassionate, nurturing people.

While she was from the worst the sludge Jersey had to offer. She didn't deserve him, not by a long shot. Not his friendship, and certainly not anything deeper.

But _god_ did she find herself _wanting_ it. More and more everyday she thought about what could have been had she taken him up on the messy he had offered. And she hated herself for it. For rejecting him in the first place. For thinking about this now. For finally realizing how much she _wanted_ this.

But she would ruin it. Ruin him.

And she would never forgive herself for that.

mMm

The sounds of them bringing Marshall back into the room woke her up and she rubbed her face self-consciously, knowing that there were salty tear tracks down her cheeks. Marshall looked exhausted, and he reached to her with his left hand, long fingers stretching almost desperately towards where she sat, the man to tired to even turn his head to look at her. Long, delicate fingers twined with his larger ones, and she saw him exhale heavily in relief. He looked so drained, and her other hand drifted to his hair, pushing the unruly strands from his forehead smoothing them back. Eyes closing , he leaned into her touch, groaning in contentment and she had to smile, glad that she could supply even this small comfort.

Dr. Walker entered the room a few minutes later, papers in his hand, a look of concentration on his prematurely aging face.

"How's it look?" Mary asked.

The Doctor sighed, rubbing the side of his neck, "Well, the swelling in his spinal column had increased slightly due to inactivity, which is to be expected, but his internal organs look very good, no pulls or strains on any of the surgical closures. With the start of physical therapy would should begin to see the swelling decrease over the next couple of weeks, and as the pressure is relieved, Mr. Mann should begin to have sensation return, and later muscle function in his legs. However, there is also the distinct possibility that the swelling may be hiding more serious damage, and that even as the inflammation goes away the return of sensation and muscle control may only be partial, or even not at all."

"He could be paralyzed forever?" Mary felt Marshall flinch under her hands.

"That is a possibility, though there is only a small likely hood of that happening," he shuffled to another page in the stack of papers, "I consulted with several of my associates, and we all agree that complete paralysis is highly unlikely. However there is a good chance that he may remain partially paralyzed for the rest of his life. Not enough to prevent him from having a full and relatively normal life, even partially paralyzed he could still conceivably walk again one day with the aid of a cane or walker."

"But there's a good chance that he'll fully recover?" she could feel Marshall's tension, could practically see him settling into a dark mood, brooding and angry, and she mentally prepared herself for the fights that were sure to come.

"Of course," Dr. Walker was looking at his papers, pulling several out to attach to the file hanging at the foot of Marshall's bed, "I just needed to make you understand all the possible outcomes. In situations like this it is important to be fully aware of the situation. A physical therapist will be up in the morning to do an assessment, but I fully expect being able to discharge Mr. Mann within the next several days."

"Thank you," she murmured as the man left, and Mary sighed, looking at Marshall's tired form. His eyes were closed but she knew he was awake, just thinking.

There would be no more talking this afternoon or tonight, both alone with their thoughts, each refusing be break the heavy silence hanging over them.

mMm

Mary slept uncomfortably in the hard plastic hospital chair like she had for the last 16 days, plagued by snippets of dreams and nightmares that made no sense and she could hardly remember when she was awake. A knock at the door startled her from a blur of images, sounds, and tastes, and she jerked upright with a strangled yelp, locking eyes with the short, stocky brunette woman at the door. The woman straightened her white lab coat over her hot pink scrubs with a smile as she entered the room, making a bee-line for Mary. Instantly her hackles were raised at this woman so rapidly invading her territory, something the nurses had learned not to do when Mary had been startled into wakefulness.

You do not sneak up on a sleeping lioness.

"Hi, I'm Ms. Pendel," she extended her hand, and Mary hesitated for a second before taking it. Something about this woman just rankled her, put her on edge. "I'm here from the Physical Therapy Unit to consult on Mr. Mann. I'll just wake him up and we can get started!" The woman was too perky, and Mary hated the thought of her putting her hands on him.

"I'll do it," she stated firmly, circling around the woman, keeping her in her field of vision as she moved to Marshall's bedside. He was already awake, she could tell by his breathing and how still he was. Marshall was never still when he slept, always twitching and moving. However she touched his arm gently, and leaned over, making a show of waking him up. Marking her territory so to speak.

"Wake up sleeping beauty," she leaned over him so that her lips were close to his ear, "Time to get poked and prodded some more." Dropping a quick peck on his cheek, nothing more than a brushing of lips, but obvious enough for the other woman to see, Mary straightened up as Marshall opened his eyes. He looked dull, faded, and Mary was startled, but hid it well as the other woman came over and began reviewing his chart, before poking and pinching at his legs, lifting them up and bending them at the knee. Forcing his hips to flex this way and that, using her body to manipulate his in a way that sent Mary's blood to boiling.

After the third time the woman felt across his hips, below his belly button Mary snapped, "Have you molested him enough or are you going to grab his junk next?" The woman pulled her hands back as if she had been slapped, looking every inch the teenager who had been caught feeling up a boy by her parents. At least she had the decency to look embarrassed, "So what's your assessment? Or do I have to call for someone not quite so grabby to take a look at him?" Mary's eyes narrowed, "I may not be a physical therapist, put even I know that you don't need to be rubbing on a person like _that_, to make a proper assessment!"

Marshall was silent and the woman was flustered.

"Yes… well.." she started nervously, "In my professional opinion, he is ready to leave as soon as they get him completely switched to oral pain medicine. For the first two weeks at least he should have daily physical therapy sessions in his home, and once he's more up to it he can begin more intensive sessions at our physical therapy center. I'll make the arrangements to have one of our people come see him every day at noon for the two weeks following his discharge, and after that time someone will reassess his needs."

"It better not be you," Mary told her stonily, fixing her with a gaze that had made criminals piss themselves. The words themselves were not threatening, but the tone made the threat clearly enough.

"No, no," the woman was quick to agree, "It'll be one of my associates."

Mary stayed strong, tall, and ferociously intimidating as the woman disappeared out of sight and down the hall.

mMm

**A/N: **Okay, I know I've taken great liberty's with medical practices and knowledge here, and I did it on purpose, partially because it's been quite a while since I studied any of this and after my sister's traumatic stay in the SICU a few years ago, I don't much care to think about it even though she's perfectly fine now, but also because I really didn't feel the need to go to in depth with it, this all is still mostly just set up for the meat of the story so I didn't want to bog people down with unnecessary info. I have a Marshall streak in me 10 miles wide, and I tend to share way too much on topics that I am knowledgeable about and I didn't want to get everyone bogged down in medical stuff. Next chapter will deal with Marshall's arrival home, his atrocious mood, and the first of many major decisions for Mary.

And just in case anyone wanted to know, yes the twizzler calculations are accurate. I know, I'm a major nerd, and the only reason there are no pudding cup weight numbers is because I couldn't find an accurate weight for a pudding cup… Grrr….

Love Y'all,

DToB


	6. The MannChild

**Torn and Tattered Seams**

**Chapter 6: The Mann-Child**

**A/N: **I'm liking Marshall's take on the pregnancy in the newest episode, the whole "We're having a baby" thing has great promise to it, and I'm really hoping that they work it right. But I'm finding myself feeling pessimistic about the whole thing. I'm especially foreseeing difficulties when Mary's mother and sister find out, especially with all the stuff about Mark on Facebook that Brandi talked about an episode or two ago. I just don't even know anymore, so I'm going to just have things happen the way I want in this story and let the series unfold as it may.

**Disclaimer: **Totally not mine…

mMm

Exactly 23 days after Marshall's shooting, he was in a wheelchair being pushed out the front doors by his partner, having not said a single word to her in the last 7 days. It unnerved her and she'd had about enough of it. She was bristling and anxious, and had been snapping at defenseless nurses for days. The poor women were either used to it, or were masochists because they had just smiled and nodded and let her run roughshod over them.

"Alright Cowboy," she told Marshall, not expecting an answer, "Our ride should be here in a minute."

No sooner than she spoke, a charcoal gray double cab F150 pulled into the circle drive followed closely by Peter's BMW, and as she looked at the truck in person for the first time, she was certain of her choice. It was big, sturdy, and innocuous. It would blend in with the traffic of Albuquerque, and the full size bed with the lockable cover could hold anything she needed. She grinned at the 4X4 sticker on the side, knowing that she would make good use of the four wheel drive. Brandi hopped out of the driver seat and walked around the front of the truck, tossing the keys to Mary who caught them one handed.

"I like your choice of new wheels sis," the younger Shannon grinned.

"Hey who could beat that friends and family discount," she shot Peter a pleasant smirk, "The 'Probe Repair Fund' covered the damn thing outright, and I'll be saving money on gas. It'll be nice to drive something with consistent gas mileage in the double digits."

"Just remember our deal?" Peter chuckled.

"Yeah, yeah," Mary rolled her eyes, "My sister and three goats. Got it."

"And the probe to dispose of where it will never harm another unsuspecting soul," he added, wagging a finger at her.

"Please, like you haven't already smashed my poor baby to bits," she began to push Marshall towards the truck after allowing Peter to take their bags, "I just hope the someone cleared my stuff out of it first."

"Don't worry," Brandi said, opening the passenger side door, "I move all your stuff, and got one of Peter's mechanics to take out your lockbox and bolt it under the truck's driver seat."

"Thanks for everything guys, I'll talk to you later," Mary saw both of them shifting uncomfortably, wanting to offer help, but deciding against it, and Mary was eternally grateful. She waited until they were out of sight to turn to Marshall, "Alright, time to get you in the truck."

She looked at the open door for a minute, before grinning, "Alright, looks like we have some 'oh shit' handles, that'll make this easier. But you're gonna need to grab onto the door and then the overhead handles to help me get you in here. I may be strong, but we both know I can't lift you. Just take it easy, we don't need you popping a staple or anything."

Marshall grunted at her. But it was more sound than he'd made in days and she was ecstatic.

mMm

Four hours later, found Mary finally getting Marshall onto the couch in his living room, and she collapsed next to him in exhaustion, her forehead pressed against his arm and her legs curled under her. "Are you ever going to talk to me?" she asked gently, her face still buried, "Or am I going to have to beat it out of you." Mary snorted, "I never thought I'd miss your trivia." She looped her arms around his upper arm loosely and spoke, "Did you know kangaroos can actually store fertilized eggs in their body from previous breeding seasons? And use one of those embryos to become pregnant?"

"They also have some semblance of control over the sex of their offspring," Marshall added, his voice hoarse from disuse.

"There's a species of lizard in South America that is completely female and reproduces through parthenogenesis," she was proud of that little factoid, and had been saving it for a special occasion.

"Cows lick inside their nose to obtain amylase, an enzyme needed for digestion, which most other species have readily available in their saliva," he countered.

"Eww," Mary grumbled, rubbing her face against his shoulder, "The eat nose nuggets to help their digestion? Ugh, this guy that Brandi dated back in Jersey, Tony or something, must have excellent digestion then."

"She sure knows how to pick um," Marshall shook his head.

"Twenty-three days in ICU and your puns are still horrible," she could feel herself relaxing against him, and wanted to let herself believe that he was all better now, that he would just go back to being the same old Marshall. But she knew better than that, and so she held back the words building on her tongue. _'Are you alright?'_

She stood to pick out a movie for them and he grinned like a small child, wide an toothy though she was quick to notice that it didn't reach his eyes, when she picked up the whole Lord of the Rings Trilogy instead of just going for one of them, and she put the first disk into the DVD player as she went to order dinner. Scanning the Chinese takeout menu, Mary frowned, trying to find the healthiest possible options. It wouldn't do feeding Marshall crap, and she vowed to enlist her future brother-in-law for some much needed, and overdue cooking lessons.

Here she was, changing herself for a man, well changing herself for a _Mann_ she corrected, and found that she didn't mind the prospect as much as she once thought she would. But she had to admit, had it been someone else on the couch, like Raph or god forbid, Faber, she would not be contemplating such changes with any enthusiasm, or a soft smile on her face.

When the food arrived, if Marshall was surprised by the presence of steamed vegetables and rice, instead of the usual fried vegetable lo-mein, he didn't show it, just eating what she offered him, watching the screen with the rapt attention of someone so thoroughly engrossed that they noticed little else. Though she knew that even with such intense focus, Marshall was still completely alert.

It was calming, cathartic, sitting with Marshall like this, and movie nights often ended with her sprawled across the couch, her feet in Marshall's lap, grinning like a contented Cheshire Cat, and trying to put off going home as long as possible.

But they hadn't had many nights like this lately.

Her eyes drifted unbidden to the shelf at the bottom of the entertainment center, now totally back to normal, that she had crawled halfway into to retrieve his photo albums. To the side of the couch where the antique end table was now missing, in a dump somewhere, or in evidence lockup as so many splinters, and for the briefest second, she could feel the cold barrel pressed against her scalp again, could feel the chill at Abigail-Natalie's words as she threatened and laughed about Marshall. Chortling as she admits wishing to be a black widow of sorts, shooting Marshall point blank while fucking him six ways to Sunday.

Her breath was coming in short pants and she felt as though she would hyperventilate when Marshall shifted beside her, having to use his arms to leverage his lower body, and bumped against her. Instantly she could breathe again, and forced her panic down, allowing herself to slump down beside Marshall so that their arms were touching and she could rest her head on his shoulder. Not enough pressure to hurt him, but enough contact to keep her from dwelling.

She knew that is said something about her, that all it took to chase away the bad dreams was Marshall, but she was just too damn tired to think about it.

mMm

Stan was by far, the greatest boss she could ever hope for.

He had went out of his way to let her work from home, which for the time being was Marshall's living room (she had refused the guestroom and it's back murdering mattress in favor of the overstuffed couch) issuing her a department laptop and wireless printer to help with the paperwork. She dropped off completed forms at the Sunshine Building every few days in between witness visits, and Stan had even offered to pick up a few of her and Marshall's more difficult cases, considering she was taking care of her and her partners witnesses. Many, many more than a single Marshal would normally have to deal with, and she was managing quite well, all things considered.

Work was going well, but taking care of her _Mann-Child_, as she had taken to calling him, was another thing entirely.

She hadn't been there the first few times the physical therapist showed up, which she had initially thought was a good thing because she really didn't want to see some pretty little thing with her hands all over Marshall, even if it was for a good reason, but after the fourth day she had received a call from the hospital asking if they still wanted a physical therapist sent out, because no one had answered the door whenever the woman had arrived for Marshall's sessions.

He had been locking the door and ignoring the bell.

So for the next two days, she had delayed leaving until the therapist could arrive and she could let her in, because giving her a key was out of the question and was secretly pleased that not only was the woman plain, but also married. The woman called her on the second day, informing her that both days, Marshall had locked himself in his room, refusing to come out as soon as Mary had left. The therapist had let the first day slide, knowing what trauma could do to a person, but felt that by the second day Mary should at least know what her partner was doing.

The following day, Mary removed the locks from every door inside the house, and waited for the therapist. Then the two women tracked Marshall through the house, to the study where he had tried to sequester himself, and Mary forced him into the living room for his session, pushing his wheelchair into the open area that she had cleared out for his exercises.

And he slumped in his chair, as limp as a rag doll, refusing to cooperate, and much too heavy for the two women to manhandle into submission.

Mary was seething.

She apologized to the woman, and told her to cancel the sessions until she could get through to Marshall. The Physical Therapist had nodded, looking sympathetic and had placed a comforting hand on Mary's arm.

Nothing would have made her happier at that moment than yelling at Marshall, snapping about how stupid he was being, how he was hurting his own chances of recovery by acting like this, but after seeing the dejected way that he rolled himself into the patio behind his house, she held her tongue and slipped out of the house to do her witness visits. As she climbed into her truck, she sent his mother a quick text asking when the Joint Task Force would be done with the operation, and asking her to call her if at all possible, as soon as she could.

Mary just didn't know what to do anymore.

mMm

Mary had sped through witness visits, refusing offers to stay for lunch at several of her stops, and skipped her daily visit to the office, instead deciding to head home early, sneak into the house and corner Marshall. Catching him completely unawares was difficult, but she hoped to surprise him enough to gain a little bit of advantage. A startled Marshall was a more compliant Marshall, and would often times answer her questions without thinking about them first, giving her an answer not filtered or tempered by logic and thought. She parked her truck a block away, and moved quietly down the street, cutting across Marshall's grass at an angle so she wouldn't be easily visible out the windows, and slid her key into the lock.

Home maintenance was something that Marshall was fastidious about, and Mary was glad. The new lock was smooth and barely made a click after it had been worked and oiled to Marshall's exacting standard a few days prior, and the hinges were well greased, opening and closing without a sound in the well fitting frame. Creeping down the short entryway, Mary peered around the corner, catching sight of Marshall sitting on the couch with a beer in his hand. Anger rolled in her gut, her teeth gritting. The doctor had said _absolutely_ no alcohol, and here he was drinking when he thought no one would catch him. He had practically wrestled her to the ground in front of Raph and her family when she had pulled a similar stunt after her shooting.

Her mouth opened to shout at him, hopefully startling him enough to make him spill his beer all over the couch and pristine cream carpet even though she knew she'd be the one cleaning it up, but then her eyes locked on the screen and she stilled instantly. It was one of those baby shows on one of the girly networks that she would never admit to watching, the ones where they track the happy couple for the last month of the pregnancy and through delivery. The man on the screen was holding his pretty wife's hand as she cried out in pain, speaking soothing words to her quietly. She could see how red the back of her partner's neck and ears were, and knew in an instant that there were tears running down his face.

Pulling back into the shelter of the entry way, she pressed her back to the wall, breathing heavily as her brain tried to compute what she had just seen.

She knew her partner, knew him better than anyone. Knew that he wanted a family, wanted to be a father more than anything. And now… And now he was paralyzed from the waist down, possibly permanently. She could see his dream withering away and dying, drying up as he fell into despair, and an instant understanding swept over her.

He was giving up.

Giving up on his recovery now, before he could make any effort, place any hope in walking again, being normal again. The paralysis had made him impotent, the doctor had told her as much, though he had said that it should be temporary along with the uselessness of the rest of his lower limbs, so long as he worked at his physical therapy. But the chance of permanence had left her partner bitter. Left him descending into despair now, instead of disappointment later if all the effort put into his recovery was for naught.

Tears stung her eyes, and she bit her lip to keep from sobbing. Hands pressed to her flat abdomen as visions of a blonde baby with Marshall Mann eyes flashed before her eyes.

She didn't know what to do for him, and she could feel her own, tenuous dreams dying along with his.

Being a carnal, sensuous creature by nature left her with the urge to cross the room and climb into his lap, hold him close to her and show him that she still viewed him as wholly male. That she believed with all of her being that he would be well again, that he had no reason to mourn his dreams of a family, of children. But another part of her, the astute, logical part of her the Marshall had cultivated with dedicated care over the course of their friendship knew that those actions would not help, that they would only depress him further. That the symbolic offering of herself to him would only increase his depression, because there she would be sitting in his lap, presenting his dreams to him on a silver platter, and he would be unable to respond.

Trapped in the wanting with no way to fulfill his desires.

Backing away slowly, she slipped back out the front door, slumping down to sit on his small porch, head in her hands, knees pulled up close. Mary felt totally useless, her own unique brand of comfort would be no help to him right now, the physical kind definitely not an option for obvious reasons, alcohol totally out of the question, and even her simple presence was likely to embarrass more than sooth. Because even if she reentered the house, banging the door loud enough for him to hear, and giving him enough time to change the channel and hide his beer, one look in her green eyes and he would know. Know what she'd seen and see her pity, her sorrow for his pain. The man knew her to well for his own good.

She was shaking, seconds away from bursting into pathetic sobs, when her phone rang.

"Hello?" she answered shakily, not looking at her caller ID before flipping the phone open.

"What's wrong, Sweet Pea?" Claire Mann's voice was all it took to open the flood gates.

"I don't know what to do for him," Mary sobbed openly, ignoring the looks Marshall's neighbors were giving her, "He's so depressed. He won't do any of his physical therapy. He won't talk to me. He's just given up!" Her volume went up with her distress, but she kept it carefully below a roar so as not to alert her partner inside the house.

"The Task Force finished operations this morning," Claire soothed, "Seth and I can be there in less than a day. We can help you take care of him."

"He needs more than that," Mary's voice was weak, and she hated herself for it. Marshall was the only person in the world who could make her weak, not even her own absent father had that kind of power. "He… he… he needs to reboot…" she laughed weakly at the tech reference, "He needs to be away from the job, away from everything that reminds him of what happened." The line was quiet for a long moment, Claire knowing to remain silent in a very Marshall-like way, to let Mary collect her thoughts, "Does your offer still stand?"

Claire knew instantly what Mary meant, "Of course Sweet Pea. I'll let the family know."

"Thank you," Mary whispered, "Bye." She disconnected the call and stared at the phone for a long minute before getting to her feet slowly, feeling old as her body protested.

She needed to talk to Stan and then her future brother-in-law. Walking to her truck, she smiled, the first real smile in a month. Tonight she would take care of business, and tomorrow morning she would load up her cowboy.

_'Albuquerque you can go to hell, we're going to Texas.'_

mMm

**A/N: **Well I finally got to where I want to be! Now the real fun can begin!

The last line is a tribute to a quote from Davy Crocket, "You may all go to hell, I will go to Texas." I love that line, it ranks up there with my plethora of favorite John Wayne quotes.

Sorry for Mary being so out of character, but we can hope to see our fierce lioness return to her snarky self slowly over the next few chapters as the healing process begins, both for Marshall, and for her. I also hope to be able to have some more fun and zesty bits begin to get introduced next chapter, and from there things will really begin to heat up.

Any suggestions and criticisms would be great!

Love Y'all,

DToB


	7. Of Road Trips and Gummy Bears

**Torn and Tattered Seams**

**Chapter 7: Of Road Trips and Gummy Bears**

**A/N: **Okay first off, I'll admit, I'm a Texas Woman and damn proud of it. How can I not be, I live in the greatest state in the nation! Which may be part of the reason why Abigail bugged me so much. Firstly, no one who's an alumni of SMU is _that_ proud of it, her level of enthusiasm is typically relegated to someone who went to Texas A&M or University of Texas. Secondly, most Texans will only refer to it as 'The Republic of Texas' to one another, the solidarity of being a member of the population of a state that was once it's own nation, and has the potential to be one again. Thirdly, the actresses Texas accent is _horrendous_, seriously the stuff of nightmares, and sounds more like the accent of a wanna be southern belle from Georgia (who is trying really hard to fake it to cover up a thick New York or Jersey accent).

And no one better give me any crap about my love of my home state, I've lived many other places and never found anywhere better! But also know that I'm not poking fun of where anyone else is from. I just love Texas and I'm not afraid to let _everyone_ know!

**Disclaimer: **Don't own it, if I did, it would be much more pornographic. I'm just saying, I wouldn't mind seeing _more_ of Fred Weller, and _less_ of his clothes. ^_^ And the song mid way through belongs to Cross Canadian Ragweed. I couldn't help but throw it in.

mMm

Marshall had conditioned himself over the years to achieve a certain level of alertness at all times, he slept deeply, but was easily awoken by out of place noises and unsettling feelings. He could tell who was approaching him by the sound of their footsteps, and even tell you what pair of shoes those he knew best were wearing based on the sounds of their footfalls. The sound of Mary banging and stomping around his house were hardly out of place, though the early hour brought him to partial attention as he heard her shuffling around his home office, opening and closing the drawers on his filing cabinet, before padding out of the room barefoot. Later he became aware of her sneaker clad feet moving through the living room and then the front door opened as she left the house, once again the early hour being the only thing strange as the sounds brought him to partial wakefulness. He heard her truck crank and doors slam before she put it in gear and pulled away from the curb.

He wasn't too overly concerned with her departure. They often times came and went at odd hours at the behest of a witness, and he ran through all of them in his head trying to guess which one had summoned her from bed. Guessing that it was one of his because of her rummaging in his office, he ran over names and known issues, trying to use the errant thoughts to fill the place between consciousness and sleep to keep guilt and worry from sneaking into the unoccupied spaces.

Her return, several hours later, jarred him from waking dreams, the snippets heart wrenching and brief, leaving him feeling unsettled and nauseous. And as he became more acutely aware of his surroundings, he noticed that Mary was moving through his house with much greater purpose know, occasionally disappearing out to her truck before returning. Lastly, she entered his room. He didn't tense, not feeling nervous or worried about her presence there, she checked on him often throughout the night when she thought he wasn't paying attention, and even more regularly, stole his pajamas and workout clothes (both of which were much to big on her) because she was too lazy to do more laundry than she felt was necessary. At least that was his theory, he didn't even want to think that maybe she _liked_ sleeping in his clothes.

Mary went to his closet and grabbed his duffle bags, stuffing them with clothes, toiletries and the collection of sentimental trinkets that he kept in his nightstand. Never once did he let on to being awake, not that he doubted that she had noticed. She always knew when he was awake and simply feigning sleep. Returning from her truck several minutes later, she slunk across his bed and dropped down heavily beside him, bouncing him slightly and he fought a growl of irritation.

"I know you're awake," Mary stated firmly, poking him with one long finger, "And have been for a while. Come on, its 6:30 in the morning, normally you're the one up and about and I'm still lolling around on the couch." He grunted and tried to roll away, she chuckled and pulled him back.

"What do you want?" he grumbled, not in the mood for whatever it was she was planning.

"It's time to get up," Mary rolled her eyes, "I made plans for us today doofus, and I'm not letting you screw them up by moping in bed all day."

"You are not taking me back to the hospital," his voice was stony, and she stared at him, startled, "And you can tell the physical therapist not to bother with whatever you two cooked up."

She punched him in the arm hard, growling out her words, "I'm not taking you to the hospital, idiot, and I told the therapist yesterday not to bother coming back. You're obviously on some self-destructive binder and far be it from us to try and get you to do something that's actually good for you!"

"What's the point?" he snarled, catching the headboard with one hand and hauling himself over towards her, so he was laying on his side facing her. His breath and scent washed over her, and she was struck by just how much larger than her he actually was. His eyes, those eyes she kept imagining on the face of a blonde infant, locked on hers and she was trapped. In the dull morning light they were like ice, cold and unforgiving.

"The point?" she echoed, feeling confused and cornered, not the aura she had wanted to project this morning.

"Yes Mare, the point! Why bother with me, even if I ever do walk again, it won't be without a limp or with the assistance of a cane!" He was enraged, eyes flashing as ice melted and became boiling water, "I'll be of no use to the Marshal Service! I won't be able to watch your back! Just find a new partner, and leave me the hell alone!"

He tried to move away from her then, towards the edge of the bed where the wheelchair sat, but she caught him and held fast, one arm going around his waist, and the other cupping his cheek as she pressed herself against him from shoulder to hip. "The point, Marshall, is that you are my best friend. The only person in the world that I will ever fully trust. The only man who I will ever let see my stupid vulnerable side. I'm not thinking about your job, or you badge, or your gun. I'm thinking about you." She pressed her forehead against his, closing her eyes against the sting of tears, hating herself for wanting to cry _again_, and just held him to her for a moment. "Now you are _going_ to get dressed, and you are _going_ to get in my truck, and then we are _going_ for a ride." She poked him in the chest with a finger as she finally released him. "No more of this moping bullshit, or I'll shoot you myself."

He smiled gently at her coarseness and nodded in compliance.

Mary threw his change of clothes at him, a pair of sweat pants that she had yet to steal from him, fresh boxers, a worn blue t-shirt, and socks. She turned away from him as he struggled into his boxers and pants, before coming over to the side of the bed and crouching down to help him with his socks and sneakers as he pulled on his t-shirt. Rubbing his feet gently before manipulating his shoes into place, she noted the muscles on his right foot twitching gently under her touch, the sole and top of his foot now had feeling instead of just his toes, and she grinned. Tilting her head forward so he couldn't see her face behind a curtain of blonde hair, her smiled widened as the big toe on his left foot twitched slightly. She was struck by the urge to push him backwards onto the bed and check him over completely for isolated pockets of newly regained feeling, but she fought against it.

Leaving Marshall to get into his chair and follow her down the hall by himself, knowing that he valued even this small bit of independence, she went to the kitchen and loaded bottles of water into a small ice chest. He was totally silent as she did a last minute check around his house, jiggling windows to make sure they were locked and turning off electronics.

"Where are we going?" he was curious by nature and couldn't help but ask.

"You'll find out when we get there doofus," he could practically _feel _her nervousness vibrating her entire body and his by default. He faltered for a moment, Mary didn't do nervous.

Marshall cast a look around his house, taking in all the preparations that Mary was making for their departure. "How long are we going to be gone?"

"None of your beeswax, nosey," she cut him an irritated look, and grabbed a hold of the wheelchair handles roughly, jerking him towards the door after depositing the small ice chest in his lap. He sighed internally, irritated was good. Irritated was normal. Nervous Mary made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. When Mary actually used the temporary ramp off the porch that Stan had put in, instead of jostling him down the stairs, his worry practically skyrocketed. Mary didn't do kind and gentle, just like she didn't do nervous, and here she was doing all of the above. He wanted to question her, demand to know where the alien with her face had stashed the body, but when he saw her worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, all the words in his head became stillborn on his tongue.

Marshall knew that she cared. That she worried. But to see all of those softer emotions actually displayed on her face was a little humbling. She was _that _worried about him, and all he was doing was being an ass. A wave of bitterness swept through him, feeling almost pleased that she was feeling this way. Suffering because of him. Feeling a tiny portion of what she caused him to feel regularly. And while he hated himself for it, he couldn't help but hope that this would be the thing to push her away. Life without Mary would be excruciating, crippling in its own distinct way. But a life with Mary in it, where he was unable to protect her... Unable to watch her back... Forced to see someone else take his place...

It would kill him.

He needed to force her away now. Before he was replaced. As her partner. As her friend.

Sitting by, unable to be fully in her life, in both the ways he already was and the ways he dreamed to be. He couldn't stand to watch her fill those holes with others.

Couldn't bear to see her with another partner. Another _man_. As tenuous as his claim on her was, she was still _his_, but one day soon, she wouldn't be. She would find another Faber or two, and then another Raph. One who'd manage to worm his way in far enough to make her think that the white picket dream he was offering was something she wanted, that changing to accommodate that dream was what she needed to do. That he'd keep her from being alone. The one thing that she really and truly feared. And she'd say yes. _Again. _And she'd go through with it this time.

And that was the one thing that he really and truly feared.

His face was like stone, as he reached up and grabbed the interior handles of Mary's truck, the ice chest had been moved while he was distracted by his musings, and he hauled himself forward, wretchedly aware of Mary, warm and soft, pressed against his back, arms around his waist. Supporting him with all her strength as she helped him into the passenger seat. _God_, he hated this. Hated that it had taken him being crippled and rendered impotent to get her arms around him. That she was only doing this because she had to, not because she wanted to.

Mary lingered with her arms half around him as he shimmied into his seat, and leaned her forehead against his chest, breathing slowly, trying to get herself together before she lifted her eyes to his. She had seen his mood darken further in the 20 minutes it had taken to get him from his bed to the truck. A new, deeper melancholy developing after his short bout of curiosity. She wanted to talk to him, but didn't know what to say. How to reassure him, and she felt her own mood begin to falter. She had felt so good that morning, so unbelievably at peace, rendered calm by the knowledge that she was doing right by Marshall. Putting his needs before her own. Taking him to where he needed to be.

But now...

Now she felt weak, like the energy had been sucked out of her, and tears stung her eyes. Driven more by need than sense, she forced her hands behind his back, pulling herself to him tightly, her face buried in the side of his neck, and his entire body went still and rigid. Pulling strength from the fact that he was there and solid against her, she nuzzled against him, overwhelmed by his sheer presence, once again feeling relief granted by nothing more than his living, breathing form.

Taking a deep breath, fighting the shiver that his scent evoked, she pulled away from him slowly noticing for the first time that she was virtually sprawled across his lap, and much to her horror a bright blush bloomed across her cheeks. Meeting his eyes, she suddenly felt cold, her entire body freezing at the dull, distant look on his face. Backpedalling quickly, she made sure he was settled, and closed the door, praying that he couldn't hear her heart pounding, because she certainly could.

Her pulse had slowed to a less embarrassing rate by the time she had made it around to her side of the truck, and she refused to look at him as she settled into her seat.

This was going to be a long drive.

mMm

When they entered Carlsbad on State Highway 285, she saw stunned comprehension dawn across his face out of the corner of her eye. Easing her truck into a gas station, she flipped it into park and cut off the engine. Mary jumped out, stretching her arms out above her head, and set up the truck to refuel before heading into the station. His eyes were fixed straight ahead when she returned with a full grocery bag which she promptly tossed into his lap, startling him.

"What the...?" he mumbled, his first words since getting into the truck, as he pulled bag after bag of gummy bears out of the grocery sack.

"Some tall know-it-all once told me that it's not really a road trip unless there's gummy bears involved," she grinned at him, her smile widening as the corners of his lips turned upwards.

"The gummy bear originated in Germany in 1922, and was created by Hans Riegel Sr. the founder of the Haribo Company. It was originally released under the name 'Dancing Bear'. The gummy worm wasn't introduced until 1981 by Trolli. Gummy bears were so popular that they were used as a basis for a Disney Saturday morning cartoon of the same name," his voice was soft and lacked his normal enthusiasm for useless trivia, but it was trivia none the less.

Mary snatched one of the packages from him and ripped it open, grabbing a small handful and shoving it in her mouth, "And here I thought that all they were good for was illustrating sex positions." She grinned toothily, multicolored bits of gummy bear carnage stuck to her teeth.

Marshall seemed thoughtful as he ripped open another package of gummy bears and began to munch on them as Mary started the truck and pulled out of the station. "Are you just taking me to my parents home so you can dump me off on my family and get back to your normal life?"

She was startled by his bluntness. "No," she stuttered slightly, "_We _are going to see your family."

"You have work," he pointed out.

"I took time off," she answered evasively, hands tightening on the steering wheel.

"You left our witnesses to Delia and Charlie?" Marshall was trying to make sense of the situation and failing miserably.

"Stan is covering our witnesses with their help," her voice was terse and he knew that she was hiding something, but he didn't push it.

They passed through the heart of the town, looping around the city park to avoid road construction and Marshall averted his eyes from the playground full of children, feeling suddenly very upset. He had spotted a tall man chasing a small blonde girl, looking to be about five years old, laughter plain on his angular face, and Marshall felt his heart grab painfully. Feeling the acute loss of his fanciful dreams. Mary spotted the father/daughter pair seconds after he did, and noticed his reaction, her heart breaking for him. Reaching out, she took his hand without thinking and twined their fingers together, keeping a firm grip on him so he couldn't pull away.

He tightened his grip on her hand as he closed his eyes, and Mary felt for the first time, that she might just be getting through to him, if only a little bit.

mMm

Early evening found them crossing the New Mexico/Texas border and Mary pulled the truck into the Texas Welcome Center Rest Stop. She slid out tiredly and walked around to the other side of the truck to help Marshall out, getting his wheelchair out of the backseat. They both had to use the restroom, and Mary pushed him up the hill towards the buildings, pausing unsurely outside the men's room. He had had a hard enough time at the gas station restrooms, she knew not because he told her, but because how long it had taken him. She knew that even handicapped stalls at this particular rest stop were a little tight from a witness transfer several years ago when they had had to track down a witnesses errant 5 year old who thought hiding in bathrooms was funny.

"Do you need any help?" she asked finally after a long pause, finally working up the courage to say the words.

"I don't need any help taking a piss," he snapped, jerking his chair away from her, "My bladder muscles still work just fine."

"Damn it Marshall," she sighed, rubbing her face with long fingered hands, "Please don't start a fight over this. I just want to help you."

He stopped in his tracks, stubbornly refusing to turn around, "You _want_ to help me?"

"Yes, Marshall," she was tired and cranky, and doing her best not to snap at him, "I want to help you. How hard is that to comprehend?"

"_Want_ to? Not _have_ to?" his brain felt sluggish and his body ached, he really needed to take more pain medicine, but had been resisting the temptations and Mary's offers to retrieve the pill bottle from his bag. They made him feel fuzzy and he didn't like it, but he was slowly beginning to realize that his pain was making him just as fuzzy.

"Yes. I want to help you," she was having a hard time grasping the subtle nuisances that were so obviously important to him.

Silence stretched between them, weighing heavily on their shoulders. "I'm fine," he told her after a long moment, "But could you get me a bottle of juice or something from the vending machines? I think that it's about time I took my pain meds, and I'm getting a little tired of water."

"Yeah, no problem," she yawned, "We should probably stop for the night before too long, and just start again fresh in the morning. I think that there's a Motel 6 or something like that not too far from here. Is that okay with you?"

"Fine by me," he forced the anger and bitterness from his voice easily, feeling oddly lightened by the new found distinction between wanting to help and having to help. He felt good, probably for the first time since he had been shot, and he pondered that as he rolled himself into the men's room.

Mary was waiting by the truck when he emerged from the men's room, his pills in one hand and a bottle of apple juice in the other. He couldn't help but smile as he rolled himself towards her, he knew it took a lot of effort for her to stay rooted in place, leaning against the front fender, and he appreciated it, though at the same time wondering if this was all the independence that he would ever be allowed. All the independence that he would ever be able to handle. The thought was depressing but it barely took the edge off the thrill he still felt deep in his gut. Mary _wanted_ to help him. _Wanted. _Not _had _too.

Any kind of want from Mary was precious, not exactly the kind he wanted, but better than what he had.

"Done marking your territory Mr. Mann?" she was smiling, and he couldn't help but mirror the action.

"Ran out of piss," he answered, taking the juice from her hand and taking a swig, "Need to refuel."

"Ugh," she handed him his pain pills, "Just don't relieve yourself on my truck. I like my paint job just the way it is." Mary waggled a finger at him, "And not on me either. Find a less Neanderthal tactic, because I would not be amused." She suddenly flushed at her words, bright pink coming to her cheeks and she was once more horrified by herself for blushing. Mary Shannon didn't blush. But her she was, doing just that, because of her own off handed insinuation to Marshall that she was part of his territory. She had made the joke before, but suddenly it didn't feel like a joke anymore.

Marshall noticed her pink cheeks and panicked expression, but let it go an obvious sign of just how tired he was, and shrugged his shoulders, "I'll just club you over the head and drag you back to my cave later."

Chuckling, she shook her head, blonde hair flying every which way. Just joking with Marshall like she had done a thousand times before made her feel more like herself than she had since Stan's 2am call. "Just don't hit me too hard, if I wake up with a headache and a knot on my head, you're going to have to cook your own brontosaurus and sleep in the dirt outside the cave."

"Yes ma'am," he mock saluted.

"Just get over here doofus, she we can get you in the truck and get on our way," she pouted, actually _pouted_, at him.

"Fine. Bossy woman," he grumbled, no real irritation in his voice as he reached for the interior handles, and Mary wrapped her arms around his waist, pulling herself snuggly to him and using her knees to work his legs into the truck. His arms came around as she shifted his back towards the seat, breast pressed to his side, and he pulled her more firmly too him, pressing his face into her hair. Mary could hardly breathe as she stood there on tip toe, pressed against him, his arms holding her pleasantly restrained.

After a dozen heartbeats, his arms slackened and she rolled off her toes, standing flat footed only a foot from him. His face was a soft smile, and she answered in kind, her face gentle as she slipped the rest of the way from his grip and closed the door.

Mary had to force herself not to skip around the front of the truck like a little girl.

God, this man made her crazy.

mMm

As it turns out, Mary's memory of this road wasn't as good as she believed it to be. There was absolutely nothing along 285 until they hit Pecos one and a half hours later, and found the Motel 6 she had recalled, she had thought it was much closer, and growled angrily at herself as the clock on the dash read half after midnight. The parking lot was almost totally full as she backed her truck into one of the few open spots, and she glared daggers at the school buses and vans bearing school names filling the parking lot. High school students clad in blue corduroy were milling about, in and out of rooms, shouting at one another. One group had a rope going over the second floor railing, using it to pull their luggage upstairs instead of using the clogged stairway.

"Damn it, I hope they have a room left," Mary was not happy.

"There'll probably be one or two," he told her, unbuckling his seat belt.

Rolling her eyes, she went to help him out, and together they made it to the lobby, dodging running teenagers, and Mary snarling angrily at them when they got to close to Marshall. "Hello," Mary called, banging on the bell at the front desk, "Anyone home?"

"Sorry, sorry," a harassed looking clerk came rushing out of the back room, "How can I help you?"

"We need a room, a double, hopefully with beds bigger than twin size," she was tired and trying not to bit the man's head off.

"Not a double left in town I'm afraid," he shot her a sheepish grin, "Most places are full to capacity right now. One or two hotels have a single room left. We have just one." He typed something in on the computer, "First floor, queen size bed, large bathroom with assistance handles in the shower and around the toilet."

Mary was grateful that he had avoided the word handicapped. "Fine we'll take it," she yawned, passing the man a credit card and filling in the check-in forms, before handing Marshall one of the key cards, "Go scope it out, I'll get the bags."

They exited lobby, and Marshall headed down the sidewalk towards the room as Mary retrieved their smallest duffels from the back seat of her truck, watching the teenagers in the parking lot joking and laughing. One group had a radio going and were dancing to the slow country song floating from the speakers. She had never much cared for country music, not because she had heard it and not liked it, but because her father had always hated it.

But this was nice.

_"Sick and tired of being sick and tired,_

_Everything around you's grown old._

_The days drag on, the nights last forever,_

_Every day's tougher just to keep it together._

_Forgot everything you've ever known,_

_Except for home._

_Home is where the heart is:_

_That's what somebody once said._

_I think your heart is where your love is:_

_All the rest baby, the rest it's all in your head."_

Mary froze in place, staring at the group of kids but not really seeing them. She could feel her heart grab painfully in her chest, and her eyes stung with unshed tears. She had left Albuquerque without a second thought, just to follow Marshall. Twice she would have followed him to the grave. Each time the choice was easy, not even a choice really, just the only fathomable course of action. Where Marshall went, she would follow, always. They weren't themselves without the other, it wasn't just Marshall or Mary, it was Marshall _and_ Mary.

"Oh sweet Jesus," she mumbled, realization shooting through her like lightening, leaving the hair on her neck and arms standing on end. "This is going to be a fucking disaster…" Ignoring the rest of the song, she practically ran to the room, trying to clear her head of crashing thoughts and tumultuous emotions.

She couldn't _feel_ like this.

Marshall was too good. Too honorable. Too kind and loving. She would ruin him. Drag him down to her level. She was like poison, toxic and corrosive, taking in everything good and turning it to sludge.

Mary was nearly hyperventilating by the time she crashed into their room, startling Marshall. "What's wrong?" he took in her panicked state and wide, wild eyes. Looking every inch the edgy lioness he knew her to be.

She didn't know what to do, what to say, and she blurted out the first thing that came to her mind. "I saw a mouse."

The look on his face was one of bewildered confusion, "A mouse?"

She nodded quickly, finding her footing as she reigned in her emotions, "Little bastards freak me the hell out with their beady eyes and nasty little tails." She shuddered, "He darted out of the grass when I was heading to the room and surprised me." Mary had never been a good liar, especially not when it was Marshall she was trying to lie to, but the words sounded convincing even to her, and he nodded in understanding.

She supposed that it lent credence to her words that mice really did freak her out.

Stupid hairless tails. She shuddered at the thought.

Dropping his bag on the bed first, she turned away from him, "I got dibs on the bathroom."

"Yeah, Yeah," he rolled his eyes, "Go wash off the road crud."

"I won't be long," she assured him. And she wasn't, a quick shower and brushing of teeth and she was back out in the room, wearing a pair of his pajama bottoms, the cow print ones with an udder printed over the fly, and baggy USMS t-shirt that he was pretty sure had been his at one point or another. She dropped down on the bed and rolled up the too long legs of the pants, exposing her slim calves as he headed for the bathroom.

Marshall took longer than she had, though he hadn't gotten into the shower. Instead cleaning himself with a damp wash cloth and washing his hair in the sink, he hadn't shaved in a few days, and though he felt that he should, he didn't feel like bothering with it. He was scratching his scruffy chin as he made his way out of the bathroom, and rolled up to the bed, somehow managing to maneuver the chair with one hand.

"Alright Mister," Mary was standing on the bed, feet spread a part and hands on her hips, "Get your butt on this bed!" He looked at her in startled confusion for a long moment, "You better be on your back by the time I count to five." She was drumming her fingers on her hips, shooting him a playfully cross expression. He did as she said, and Mary smiled as she dropped down next to him, reaching across his body to grab his right calf, bending his leg at the knee and pushing his thigh towards his chest.

"What are you doing?" he asked as she continued to flex his leg.

"And everyone thinks you're the smart one," she rolled her eyes, "You were sitting down for a long time today, your legs need to be stretched out." As she finished her sentence she switched to his other leg, "Aren't you the one always advocating stops to stretch our legs on road trips to avoid blood clots?"

"I didn't know you were even listening," he seemed sullen and she was taken aback, feeling hurt by his assumption.

"I always listen to what you have to say doofus, I just don't always seem like it." She was pouting again, and this time instead of smothering the soft reaction, she pushed her lip out further. "I do value you, and your annoying trivia."

"Thank you," he was startled by her admission, though it felt quite gratifying to know that she actually listened to, and valued what he said.

Blushing again, she shoved his shoulder, "Time for bed idiot."

Helping him under the covers, she scooted in next to him, and after a momentary war with her newly emerging, squishier nature, she curled up purposefully against his side, using one of his arms as a pillow.

She couldn't help the grin that spread across her face, and if she had looked up, she would have seen that Marshall was grinning too.

mMm

The next day and a half of driving went by in a similar fashion, stops for food and gas, a detour when a herd of cows busted out of their pasture because they felt the need to mosey into town, and an explosive bout of road rage from both Mary and Marshall at the idiot with Louisiana plates driving 30 miles _under_ the speed limit. But the closer they got to San Antonio and the subsequent 1200 acres owned collectively by the Mann Family, about an hour east of the city, the quieter Marshall got.

Mary tried to coax stories of his childhood and useless factoids out of him, but she could see him shutting down again. She had expected it, but it stung more than she had thought it would. To see him crawling away from her and into himself had her chest aching, and by the time they passed through San Antonio, she was doing her level best to fight back tears.

If she could, she'd poke that kinder, gentler, sappier part of her brain with a stick.

She was both relieved and irritated when they turned on to the county road that may as well have been the Mann Family driveway. Every house along the road was built in a similar country farmhouse style, with big, wrap around porches, complete with rocking chairs, and barbwire fenced pastures full of a collection of black and red cows. In front of each was a numbered mailbox bearing the name Mann.

Claire had told Mary that Marshall was the only one of her children not to have a home along this road, and she wondered what in the world could have enticed him to leave his family and this beautiful country side for the desert and Albuquerque.

If Jersey and her family had been anything like this, she never would have left.

Her chest grabbed and she knew that her previous thought wasn't true. After her temporary assignment to Albuquerque 8 years ago, she had felt an unexplainable need to go back. To leave Jersey and its people behind, for the desert and the people that she had found there. Mary felt her rebellious guts settle, and sighed softly, watching as Marshall became twitchier and less at ease beside her.

She could practically feel his dark mood sucking him back in, and she prayed that she had made the right choice bringing him home.

Pulling up in front of the last farmhouse on the road, a big three story house made of natural stone and whitewashed wooden siding, with a grand porch wrapping around its ground floor, Mary breathed in the smells of honeysuckle and roses wafting in her window, and the telltale odor of pecan pie. Marshall's favorite. She could see a dark oak door open at the front of the house, and a crowd of people heading through it, the only one she really recognized was Seth, but it was totally clear who the people were.

The resemblance to Marshall was uncanny.

Mary had just managed to get Marshall settled into his wheelchair, frowning at the gravel of the driveway which would make pushing the chair a real pain, when a short woman burst from the crowd of tall people. Gray streaked her brown hair, framing her still smooth face, and big blue eyes were full of tears.

The woman crashed into Marshall, hugging him and sobbing into his shirt, planting big kisses all over his face, and then she was on her feet, snagging Mary in a bone crushing hug, laughing and crying at the same time. Pulling back, the woman grinned in the same dimpled fashion Marshall had, one hand on his shoulder, and the other on Mary's arm. "Welcome home, Marshall-baby, and you too Sweet Pea."

Clair Mann.

mMm

**A/N: **Oh my goodness, first off I am so sorry for this chapter taking so long, and it would have taken even longer if not for the word processing software on my wonderful smart phone. I wrote a good portion of this chapter on my phone while at my nephew's Allstar Baseball Tournament two weekends ago, then even more of it while at work over the five days straight in which I didn't leave the shop once (I'm tired just thinking about it), and during the Fourth of July weekend (in which I both worked and partied, and got hit in the head a half dozen times).

Well here we have Mary being Mary, avoiding her realizations with excuses and false assumptions about herself. And Marshall being, well Emo-Marshall. There is a lot of healing ahead for them both. I hope to have the next chapter out sometime this coming weekend, but I don't know how much writing I'll get to do with a week full of 16-18 hour workdays, and fence clearing and building with my folks when I'm off. Plus my little sister turns 21 in three days time.

Ugh. Life is wearing me down.

Though on a positive note, the actress who plays Abigail is not listed as a cast member on any of the remaining episodes this season according to the episode filmographies. ^_^

Love Y'all,

DToB


	8. Meet the Manns

**Torn and Tattered Seams**

**Chapter 8: Meet the Manns**

**A/N: **Good god almighty I'm tired, this has been a hellish couple of weeks of long, long work days and my needy and confrontational little sister. Plus a baseball tournament in Galveston (though the beach was a total plus) and a raging cold, which turned out to be the flu, which kept me from being able to go to work for a whole week. Definitely not the way I wanted to have a few days off... Now back to work for two weeks before I head to Pennsylvania for a week (August 6-13) to visit relatives. I will have my laptop with me though so I can hopefully get some new chapters turned out.

On an unrelated note, I have the sudden irrational urge to write an In Plain Sight/Fallout 3 crossover. It all spawned because Mary and the Vault Kid both have runaway dads named James. But it all boils down to the fact that I want to put Mary in Raider Painspike Armor and Marshall in goggles and a long leather duster . I think they'd do well for themselves in a post-apocalyptic world.

And IMDb totally let me down, apparently Abigail not being in the cast list doesn't mean she won't be in the episode… Grrr…

Now that I've bored you enough with my rants…

**Disclaimer:** I don't own it. If I did, there would have been much zestiness in the 'Trojan Horst' episode…

mMm

Marshall's family was overwhelming. Six brothers, all in the Marshal's service, wanting to get a look at their little brother's partner. Six sister-in-laws, all in law enforcement, wanting to offer whatever help they could give. A younger sister, stubbornly refusing to leave Marshall's side, while her fiance stood across the room, the two of them communicating silently with their eyes. Thirteen nieces and nine nephews wanting to crowd their Uncle Marshall all at once, while casting Mary apprehensive looks. Claire and Seth both looking on in amusement, clearly not wanting to get involved in the general mobbing of their youngest son and his partner.

Forty people, counting her and Marshall, in a dining room meant for roughly ten.

Mary was about ready to start climbing the walls, in a room full of apex predators looking at her with gazes ranging from condemning to acceptance and everywhere in between. Her hands tightened on the handles of the wheelchair, eyes wide, taking everything in.

It was a powder keg just waiting for a spark.

There should never be this many alpha personalities in a single room, it was bound to get messy.

Cue the carnage. "Where were you when Marshall got shot?" Derek, the oldest Mann son asked, eyes narrowed.

Mary bristled, leaning forward over Marshall, her breast against the back of his head, "Watch it or I'm going to shove that attitude of yours right up your ass." Her teeth were bared and her tone left little doubt as to whether or not she'd follow through with her threat. Personal attacks she could handle, but when her ability to watch Marshall's back was brought into question her civil tongue had a tendency to get a whole lot less civil.

"I have every right to know where the fuck my brother's partner was while he was getting shot up!" he snarled in return leaning towards her, and had Marshall not been between them, Mary would have pounced on the older man.

"Shut up Derek and watch your mouth in front of the kids," Marshall's sister, Shannon Mann, snapped, grabbing Mary's arm to hold her back, though the grip was half hearted, "As much as I'd love to see her beat that chip off your shoulder, I'd hate to see her make you cry in front of your girls."

Derek made to lunge forward at his sister when his wife, petite Sara Mann, caught his wrist in her hand, twisted it up behind his back, pulling it upwards and dropping him cleanly to his knees, "Quit being such a dumb ape. You and I both know that Mary had nothing to do with the shooting." She turned to Mary, "Please forgive my idiot, he has no manners no matter how hard Mama Mann and I tried to beat them into him."

Mary was taken aback, but still every inch the defensive lioness, "Not a problem. I'm none to kind to anyone I can lay blame on when this doofus is hurt." She gave Marshall's wheelchair a slight shake, having to force her lips to relax out of a snarl and cover her teeth, grudgingly forcing herself to accept that this woman was an ally.

"Well," Claire forced her way into the middle of the gaggle, "Now that round one of the pissing contest is done, I made breakfast!"

mMm

Round two didn't start until late afternoon.

"I don't need your help," Mary snarled, eyes narrowing at the eldest two Mann sons. Derek and Anthony stood in the doorway of the guest house, arms crossed over their chests, eyes equally narrowed.

"He's our brother," Anthony spoke evenly, his irritation much more concealed than Derek's, a hint of placation in his tone, "We want to help."

"I don't care," she spoke through gritted teeth, keeping her voice carefully low so Marshall, asleep in the master bedroom wouldn't be woken up. "I can handle taking care of him, all by myself."

"Stubborn woman," Derek stalked into the guesthouse and Mary was instantly on the defensive. Claire had made it quite clear to her children that she expected them to treat the guesthouse as Marshall and Mary's home. It was their territory and she didn't want them encroaching upon it, even if it was out of concern for their brother. It had been the elder woman's intention to try and avoid unneeded confrontation, but it seemed as though her efforts were for naught.

Anthony staid hovering in the doorway anxiously, while Derek came to a stop in front of Mary, pointing a long index finger in her face, "I don't know what you think gives you the right to come between family, but if you think that I'm going to let you come between me and my brother, but you got another thing coming!"

"I'm going to tell you this once, so you better listen closely," Mary's voice was deadly even, "I'm not trying to get in the middle of your family. I'm not trying to steal your brother away. But I will not let you blow in here all alpha male because you think you know best, and hurt him."

"He's my brother!" he snapped, "I would never hurt him!"

"Not on purpose, but you'll hurt him anyway, and I won't allow it!" she was stretching forward towards him, ready to fight should he refuse to back down, ready to defend her sleeping partner against anything. Including his own family. She felt the hair on her arms and the back of her neck bristling with the urge to snarl and tackle the man to the ground, the need to protect Marshall bouncing around inside her skull like an angry wasp.

In her mind she was already planning how to take down the large man in front of her. How to keep herself from being caught and restrained while she incapacitated him.

But the look on Derek's face made her shrink away. It was a look she had seen on Marshall's face hundreds of times.

Understanding.

"You really do love him, don't you?" his voice was soft, a faint smile on his lips and in his pale blue eyes.

Mary flinched away, her inner lioness becoming a meek housecat ready to dart behind the couch, "He's my partner."

Derek laughed, shaking his head, and turned, walking out of the guest house, leaving Mary shaky and irritated.

mMm

Mary was cross for the rest of the day, laying curled up in an overstuffed recliner that sat just twenty feet from the master bedroom. Close enough to hear Marshall moving, and his gentle breathing through the open door, but not close enough for her rebellious mind to get the best of her.

_"You really do love him, don't you?"_

She smacked her palms against the sides of her head. If words could make someone's head explode, those would be the ones.

_"You really do love him, don't you?"_

Mary wanted to cry, to shout, and most horrifying of all, she wanted to talk to Claire. Wanted the kind, motherly advice the woman had given her through this whole ordeal with Marshall, but there was no way she could allow herself to be that weak, to go talk to the woman about all the crazy things running through her head. No way that she could ever admit to this woman, whose opinion she found herself valuing greatly, that she was nothing but filth from a horrible family. That she should have never been allowed to be partnered with someone as good as Marshall, and she most certainly could never allow herself to feel anything more for him. Even just being his friend, she'd been toxic to him. The man had cursed more in the last year than he probably had in his entire life before he'd met her. She'd made him increasingly cynical. Disparaged every moral notion, holy institution, or ideal he'd held sacred.

She'd already made him less than himself. She couldn't let herself make him any worse.

"Mary. Ma-are. Mar-y. Ma-a-are. Mare." His voice was a soft whimper, but she heard it and was instantly on her feet and heading for the bedroom. Marshall's wellbeing would always win out over everything, even her own half-hearted attempts to protect him from herself.

Marshall's form thrashed, his legs barely moving despite the violent rolling of his torso. Her name was spilling from his lips in ever increasing volume and urgency, and she clambered onto the bed with him, catching his face in her hands and smoothing his hair back from his face. Her heart was breaking at the sight of him, so pitifully lost, and calling for her, someone who had been lost her entire life.

"Marshall," she called gently, one hand leaving his face to catch his shoulder and pull him towards her, "It's just a dream, come back to me. It's okay." He was still thrashing and she plastered herself to his front, the physical contact helping her focus as much as it was meant as comfort for him, her arms going around him and her face pressed into his neck. "I'm right here, come on Marsh, I'm right here."

His return to consciousness was explosive.

He shot straight upright, before crashing down on top of her, his eyes crazy as his hands gripped her face before patting down her neck to her shoulders, moving over her breast to her stomach. Catching the hem of her shirt, he forced it upward, revealing the scar that marred her otherwise smooth skin. Fingertips danced over it, probing and light at the same time, feeling the edges with astute fingers before his face moved to her abdomen and his lips pressed against the scar several times in quick succession.

She had never felt so precious. So worshiped by a man as she did in that second as he evaluated the scar left by a bullet that had nearly taken her life. It was painfully obvious that she had been the focus of his nightmare, and guilt welled in her gut that her past injuries could cause him so much torment. She needed to be more careful, if for nothing else but keeping new images from torturing her partner in his sleep. Tears spilled over her cheeks and she was unable to brush them away.

Her wrists were next in his inspection as he fingered the barely their scars left by handcuffs during her kidnapping. His lips joined his hands as he pressed her delicate wrists to his face.

She could remember the look on his face when he had burst into the basement. Could remember his smell, sweaty, musky, and male in a way that her captors hadn't been. A scent that comforted, not tormented, and she could remember her realization in that instant.

This man would never hurt her.

The rest of her scars were catalogued by nimble fingers and searching lips, even the ones she had from before WITSEC, ones he should have no way to know about. Marshall undid the fastenings on her jeans and pushed them down past her knees his fingers and then lips inspecting the faded scar from where she had been stabbed in the thigh during her first year with the fugitive task force. A scared kid hiding under the coffee table with a kitchen knife for protection from his mom's cracked out, meth-cooker friends. One of which was on the Marshals Service's Most Wanted list for heinous crimes against minors, after having been released from state prison on parole from what should have been a life sentence for similar charges. She didn't even want to know the horrible things that had driven the boy into hiding with a butcher knife.

She shivered from the memory as well as Marshall's gentle touches with deceptively calloused fingers.

Someone who folded tiny sheets of paper with such delicacy and held small children with such reverent wonder should never have such rough hands. But years of law enforcement had hardened his hands, and she found herself blessing every callous on his long digits, because every single one represented someone who was safe. Someone who would no longer be tormented by someone set to hurt them. Destroy them.

She wanted to bring those fingers to her lips, press a kiss to every callous, and every scar. But she pushed her own want to the back burner.

Had any other living being conducted such a search, such an intimate cataloging of all the places she had been hurt over the years she would have felt violated, angry. Mary would have struck them, probably doing permanent damage, and probably slapped them with sexual harassment charges.

But with Marshall it was different, she was panting, squirming to aid him in his quest of discovery, whimpering as he finished with the scar on her knee from high school basketball. Her first, gentle moan had startled them both, but a meeting of their eyes was all it took for him to return to his quest, and for her to bite her lip against similar sounds.

He shoved her hip gently and she got the message, _'Roll over'_, doing so without complaint.

Pushing her shirt up all the way, he unsnapped her bra with shaking hands, a growl deep in his throat, and for a second she was confused.

"Who did this to you?" his voice was suffused with rage as he traced along her back, along a sizable collection of small circular burns that she had all but forgotten about and that Marshall had never seen.

"Mom's first boyfriend after dad left had a temper," Mary's bottom lip was trembling, remembering being that terrified 8 year old, trying to understand what she had done to deserve such punishment, "They'd get wasted and mom would piss him off, so he'd put a couple of cigarettes out on my back to prove a point, show mom what she was in for if she kept it up. She'd stop whatever it was that she had done that time, but guaranteed, the next time they hit the bottle she'd find something new to do to get his dander up."

He kissed each circular scar, long and slow, his scruff tickling her back and she fought back the moans at his delicate treatment. As much as his actions turned her on for reasons totally different from every other wet-panty experience she had ever had, she knew she couldn't let him know.

At least not yet, while still in such a state where a physical response was impossible on his part.

She had done heinous things to men in the past. This man in particular had endured more than his fair share of mistreatment at her clawed hands. But that was one thing she could never do to him. Never could she let him doubt his capacity as a man, because of her. More tears gathered as she understood that she had done that very thing to him in the past with snark and barbed comments, but no longer could she let herself harm him like that.

It was unacceptable. She had hurt him enough already.

Mary shivered as wet tears began to punctuate the gentle presses of his lips to her back and she squirmed, wanting to turn around and hold him to her. To let him know that she was okay. But he held her fast, and after only a second of hesitation she let him hold her firmly in place.

If there was any man, any person in general, that she trusted to restrain her, Marshall was it. She had handcuffed many a man to her bed, comfortable exerting her dominance, but never had she allowed herself to be treated the same way. Even with as carnal a creature was, she had never trusted a man enough to allow him to take her from behind, to be out of her sight while she was in such a vulnerable position. Hell, she didn't even cuddle after sex, in her sleep, or on the couch while watching movies. Spooning was on her list of no-no's. Any act that exuded vulnerability was not on Mary's to do list.

Yet here she was.

Marshall's arms went around her, his face pressed into the back of her neck, his palms pressed against the scar on her stomach and she felt him calm against her, his breath evening out as he slowly returned to sleep.

Part of her knew that while he had fully woken up from his sleep, he had never totally escaped his nightmare. Had he been fully himself, not plagued by waking images of gruesome wounds and near death experiences, he never would have allowed himself to touch her as he did, search her so thoroughly without asking permission. He probably wouldn't completely remember what had transpired when he woke up, just bits and pieces, general thoughts and impressions.

But she refused to move, refused to fix her clothing. Refused to erase what had just happened in anyway. The desire to make him understand the utter and complete trust she placed in him was overwhelming and she had to let him see just how much she would give to him that she gave to no one else.

Their partnership, their friendship was so lopsided in terms of give and take, that she had to give him this. Needed to make him understand at least one iota of what she felt about him, for him. He deserved that, and so much more.

Once he knew that she had fully given him her trust, something precious and illusive. She could begin to ponder the other things that her traitorous mind was desperately wanting to turn over to him as well.

With a content smile on her face and a peaceful mind, she drifted off to sleep, only partially clothed, in her partners arms.

mMm

Waking up was not nearly as awkward as she had suspected it would be. Marshall had woken up minutes before her, and was still pressed against her, hands drifting along the scar on her stomach, and Mary pressed herself into him, shifting so she was on her back and could see his face fully. She was glad to see no hints of the desire to apologize on his face and she snuggled into him.

Mary Shannon was not a cuddler or a snuggler, but this man made her do crazy things. Made her _feel_ crazy things. Her normal response would be to dig in the claws, push away like an antisocial, rogue lioness, but her inner wildcat was content, stretched out against Marshall's warm bulk, sun dappling the bed. She yawned, big and toothy, and she could feel Marshall's grin throughout every point where their bodies touched. Pressing her face to his chest she allowed herself to enjoy the moment, the kind of moment that she had always disparaged in the past because it postponed 'naked time'.

She had always been a lone lioness in a pride of 1, despite her familial relations. Throughout school, college, the academy, and her early years with the Marshal's Service she had had no one that she could count on. It was just her, the rogue wildcat.

Then she went to Albuquerque.

Probably the single most obscure place in the continental United States, and she had met Marshall, every inch the loner lion that she was. She had been briefed on the eccentric Marshal, a man who had never kept a partner longer that six months, despite his people skills, and when she had met him, despite her barbed tongue and acidic words, she could see the proud alpha male lion that he was, shaking his mane, daring her to challenge him.

Their partnership had been a perfect fit.

She was the impulsive, brash lioness who charged into the hunt without a plan, running on instincts alone, and he was the cool calculating lion, content to sit back and allow her to handle things, which suited her nature just fine. But when he roared, called her on her bullshit, and stepped in to take over, she fell back and let him, an irate lioness deferring to her lion. Mary never liked it when he pulled the alpha male card on her, but she let him do it. He was the only man in her entire life that she let get away with it.

She had been about to drift back to sleep in Marshall's grip when a knock at the front door snapped her to complete attention. Jumping out of bed, nearly hitting the floor because of her jeans tangled around her knees, she hopped around, righting her clothes and smoothing her hair before heading out of the bedroom to answer the door. Ignoring Marshall's chuckling at her dancing her way back into her rumpled jeans.

Claire and Shannon Mann stood on the other side, baring baskets of food and a checkered picnic blanket.

"We thought that a living room picnic was in order," Shannon grinned, holding up her basket, "The two of you haven't eaten since this morning, and neither of us figured that Marshall would be up to braving the dining room again so soon."

Mary nodded, remembering how bitter and irritated her partner had gotten surrounded by all those people, most of which were small children. "Sounds like a good idea," she smiled, smoothing her hair again, feeling self-conscious under the women's perceptive eyes, "Come on in."

"Did we interrupt naptime?" Shannon giggled as she helped Mary spread the blanket over the large coffee table.

"Wha-at?" Mary stuttered, green eyes wide as she stared at the younger woman, color rushing into her cheeks.

Claire shook her head at her daughter's knowing smirk, "You have drool on the back of your shoulder Sweet Pea."

Mary's mouth opened and closed like a fish, staring at the two women who were barely containing their giggles.

"Oh it's no big deal," Shannon grinned, in the dimpled fashion that seemed to be a Mann trademark, "Just when you marry my brother, don't hyphenate your last names. A Mary Shannon-Mann, and a Shannon Maria Mann will confuse people at family reunions."

Claire rolled her eyes and batted her daughter in the back of the head, "Don't you go starting anything right now." Her voice lowered, "Especially when your injured brother is in the next room and can probably hear you."

Shannon had the decency to look sheepish as Mary ducked out of the room to check on Marshall.

He was just settling himself into the wheelchair when she entered, totally and blessedly oblivious to what was going on in the living room, "Who's here?" he asked through a yawn.

"Your mom and sister," she moved to his side, reaching out a hand to return some semblance of order to his messy hair with her long fingers, trying to hide the thrill, that such a simple action caused to sweep through her. "They brought a living room picnic lunch."

"Thank god," he answered, his stomach growling. Mary giggled, before shaking her head in irritation. First blushing. Then pouting. And now giggling. This man was making her into a gelatinous mess of estrogen and squishy emotions. What was even worse was that she found herself not even minding the changes in herself all that much.

And she couldn't help but smile at that realization.

Stupid emotions.

mMm

**A/N:** Oh my god that took forever to finish. I wanted to have so much other stuff happen in this chapter, but my muse is not very cooperative when we have the flu. Ugh. The little impromptu scar strip search was both my present to all of you for being so patient, and as a way to set Mary up for some major realizations, and I was sorely tempted to make it zestier, but I was faced with that self imposed road block of Marshall's impotence (which is slowly but surely on the mend, maybe even letting little Marshall come out to play next chapter, fingers crossed). It's probably a good thing, though, I have all these great scenes worked out for the culmination of our Marshal's finally getting their shit together, and I would hate to have to knock out their impending awesomeness with some impromptu, unplanned nooky, as opposed to my upcoming, very over planned nooky, quite possible as soon as next chapter should my muse cooperate. Said nooky will then be followed with several chapters of our beloved duo getting their shit worked out and several more rolls in the hay.

Love Y'all,

DToB


	9. Home on the Range

**Torn and Tattered Seams**

**Chapter 9: Home on the Range**

**A/N: **Grrrr… My muse is being a finicky hussy and I'm getting myself a little bumfuzzled trying to keep events in a logical order, and being sick is not helping in the least. This story could turn into a real beast(and not in a good way) if I'm not careful, so please bare with me. It'll be worth it, I promise.

OMG! What the freaking hell is up with Mary giving up Oscar, AND Marshall and Abby moving in together! I finally now saw the most recent episode and I was so uber pissed that my mom thought she was going to have to tranquilize me. All I can hope is that Abby gets pissed for whatever reason and kicks Marshall out, and him and Oscar show up on Mary's doorstep because he has no where else to go. Hmmm... I might just write a oneshot about it... But on the plus side, that episode got me off the fence about having sexy time start this chapter or the next one! :) It was definitely awkward getting my mother's opinion on this chapter, it was afterall, her idea for this kind of 'scene'. Hehe, I didn't know she could turn that red...

And now it gets zesty. M Rating now in full effect. ^_^

**Disclaimer: **I don't own it, and really no one should be surprised.

mMm

If there was one thing that Mary had learned in the first week that she and Marshall had spent with his family, it was that Mann men were attracted to strong, slightly crazy women. Claire Mann, the sweet, gentle matriarch was a Texas Ranger (Mary was still slightly shocked by this fact) and had been on the Houston SWAT before that. Derek's petite wife Sara was a US Marshall, and 10th degree black belt in three separate disciplines of martial arts. Karin, wife to the second eldest Mann son Anthony, had been a National Fencing Champion in College before becoming a State Trooper. Gretchen, Peter's tall wife from Texas German Country, had been a security guard, a beat cop, and a detective before attending the academy and joining the Marshal's service. Polly, wife of the fourth Mann son Kevin, had been Miss Texas, her scholarship money from the pageant putting her through college with a Master's in Criminal Justice before she found her way into the Marshal's service because in her own words, the CIA was too sneaky and the FBI were a bunch of assholes. Katherine was a Texas Ranger like her mother-and-sister-in-law, and had been introduced to her husband Wayne Mann, by her partner, his very own sister, Shannon. And Mallory, wife of the 5th Mann son, was one of the local sheriffs three deputies.

On top of their shared law enforcement backgrounds, they were all mothers, with the exception of Shannon, with at least three rugrats to their names. Children that they had no problems shoving into Mary's arms at any point in time.

"Oh, no no no," Mary backpedaled away from Mallory as her 3 year old daughter Penny tried to latch onto her, "I am not holding you. I have a knife in my hand!" She pointed a finger at the little girl, letting the knife in her other had rest on the cutting board covered in onions.

Penny pouted, crossing her little arms over her chest, "Bad Aunt Mary." The girl pouted harder, pointing an accusing finger. The other women in the kitchen laughed.

"Oh I don't think so," Mary narrowed her eyes at Penny, "I will not be swayed by your cuteness."

Penny's big blue eyes widened, and her bottom lip trembled.

"I am so squishy," Mary mumbled to herself less than a minute later as she balanced Penny on one hip and continued dicing onions with her free hand. "You're lucky I'm good with a knife, kid."

Penny grinned and snuggled against Mary's side.

It was Marshall's laugh, only seconds later that drew her from the onions again. Pointing that knife at him, she cut him her best glare, "Not a word doofus."

"I wasn't going to say anything," he rolled into the large kitchen where Mary was assisting with making dinner.

"I know you better than that," she told him firmly, she tilted her face towards Penny, "You think that he's up to no good too, huh?" Penny nodded firmly, and Mary smiled, "See, even she knows you better than that, and she's like two!"

"Three," Penny corrected, smacking Mary on the shoulder with a small hand.

"Fine," Mary agreed, "The three year old is even calling you on your BS."

Penny reached for her uncle, and Mary leaned to let him take her, but Marshall rolled backwards, cleanly avoiding the handoff, leaving Penny near tears and Mary frowning. Shifting the small brunette on her hip, Mary bounced her gently like she had done with Brandi when she was young, and distracting the little girl with a big hunk of tomato, most of which she knew she was going to end up wearing. She had yet to see Marshall so much as touch one of his nieces or nephews since they had arrived. Her worry darkened as he dodged Kevin and Polly's two year old son Tommy as well.

Marshall was a notorious baby-stealer. If there was a baby or small child in a room, it didn't matter where they were, he would end up with the child in his arms in 5 minutes flat. And children loved him. But here he was avoiding little ones that he loved, while putting on a falsely cheery exterior. His father and brothers had bought it, but she most certainly didn't, and from the look on her face, neither did Claire.

If he didn't wise up, she was going to smack him _with_ one of his nieces or nephews, probably Penny, because the girl had developed an unnatural attachment to her. The child was like a heat seeking missile every time Mary got in range, and for some reason she couldn't seem to turn the kid down.

"You are a pest," she told the little girl as she finished with the onions, watching Marshall carefully out of the corner of her eye.

"Yup!" Penny grinned, nodding her head, the mashed tomato in her hand and mouth dribbling on Mary's orange tank top.

"And you're messy," Mary groaned, blotting tomato mush off her front.

"I'm obnoxious!" the little girl declared, giggling.

"That too," Mary agreed, shaking her head. This child had the strangest vocabulary.

mMm

Dawn broke the next morning, to Mary entering the guesthouse in her sweaty workout clothes. She had gotten into the habit of going for her morning run earlier than normal, so she could be showered and dressed before Marshall woke. The morning run had been something they had done together since the very beginning of their partnership, and she held it sacred. Time that just belonged to them. No one was allowed to tag along. Not family or significant others, just them. She hated going without him, but she needed the time to think and recharge.

Showering quickly, she dried off and threw her hair up in a messy bun, pulling on her underwear and bra and brushing her teeth. She was convinced that there was a hole in her lip because it never failed, if she put on her shirt before brushing her teeth, she'd get toothpaste all over it. Mary rinsed her mouth and shimmied into her denim shorts and pale blue tank top, it was 110 degrees outside already, she'd be damned if she was going to wear jeans.

Marshall was still asleep when she entered the Master Bedroom and she smirked. Getting a running start, she vaulted onto the bed, bouncing Marshall into the air and startling him into wakefulness.

"Do you plan to do this every morning?" he blinked the sleep from his eyes, rubbing his chest as his breathing slowed. Giving her the evil eye all the while.

"Yup!" she grinned, tugging the sheets off of him. He groaned, and tried to roll away, but she caught one of his feet and pulled it into her hands. Since he was still stubbornly refusing a physical therapist, she had taken it upon herself to make sure he was at least doing the proper exercises. She had spoken with the physical therapist from Albuquerque at length, and had done a very Marshallish butt-freaking-ton of research on the do's and don'ts. She wasn't perfect, but she was as good as he was going to allow anytime soon, and it was better than nothing.

Rubbing his right foot, watching his face carefully as she did, she was pleased by how much feeling had returned. Planting his foot between her breast, she rubbed up his calf, paying close attention to which muscle groups were now beginning to sluggishly contract under her hand, and which ones were still unresponsive. Switching legs, Mary gave his left foot and calf the same treatment, watching the fleeting changes on his face as she worked. Taking his foot back in her hand, she bent his leg at the knee and began to push it towards his chest, startled when she felt the muscles in his thigh contract and pull his leg tighter to his chest. Wide green eyes met startled blue. He hadn't realized that he had regained that much muscle control until he had done it, and he looked as anxious as she did as she quickly switched legs.

Mary had barely gotten his leg bent when he was pulling it to his chest all on his own. The leg dropped and she kneeled between his legs, her hands dancing over his thighs in wonder, searching out knots in the underused tissue and kneading them gently, before prodding his hips and abdomen in search of numb spots.

"Roll over," she ordered, clambering over one of his legs to sit beside him. Struggling onto his stomach, Marshall panted at the exertion as Mary's cool fingers burnt trails along the skin of his back. Nimble fingertips walked along his spine, feeling for the heat and swelling that had been so obvious before, the muscles of his back having been inflamed over and around the part of his spine with the nicked vertebrae and swollen spinal cord.

It was gone.

Tears dripped from her eyes onto the heated flesh of his back as she smoothed her long fingers over the ridges and lines of his muscles. She knew that there was still internal swelling, but to see him this improved had her whole body feeling as though it was overflowing. Leaning forward, she pressed slow, gentle kisses down his back bone, breathing gently against his skin as tears continued to fall.

A gently gasp escaped his lips and she felt something inside of her break. Falling away and melting into nothingness.

And she didn't mourn the loss at all.

Her hands rubbed over his shoulder blades as she pressed her face into the small of his back, marveling at every small muscle twitch, the ones under her hands, under her cheek, and against where her legs were pressed against the side of his. It was wondrous.

Marshall forcibly rolled himself onto his back and she scrambled to the side, nearly pitching off the edge of the bed, before his strong arms caught her, pulling her back to him. Flush against his chest, she found herself very much trapped by his eyes, and held her breath as one of his hands brushed her hair out of her eyes, tucking it back behind her ear, one of many errant strands falling out of her sloppy bun.

"You're regaining muscle control," she licked her lips and swallowed against her suddenly dry throat, "We should try and work your leg muscles some more today…" Mary stopped herself just shy of launching into a rant about all she had learned about rehabilitation.

"Alright," he agreed, more optimistic than he'd been in weeks, but still sounding much more melancholy than she liked. It seemed as though nothing could truly free him from his depression, and she felt older and more worn down in the span of a long, exhausted breath.

Clambering between his legs, she got his right leg, and placed his foot against her left shoulder. "As I lean in, you press against me," she told him gently, "Then, when I begin to lean back, you pull in, okay?" He nodded and they began, Mary planting one foot flat on the bed for leverage and balance. Several sets with each leg were done in silence, Marshall breathing as evenly as he could, sweat dotting his brow, and Mary fought back a smile.

She realized that they had pushed a little too far when the leg in her grip began to tremble, she made to stop, but Marshall was having none of it, he tried to pull his leg back towards his chest. Her grip slackened, just as he tried to tug her along with him, and she pitched sideway, colliding with his chest, laying sprawled between his legs. Snark flew out the window, her catty, halfhearted words dying the second she realized exactly what was pressing insistently into her stomach. Mouth opening and closing several times, she looked up to meet Marshall's stunned eyes.

He was sweaty and tired, and oh so gloriously hard against her stomach.

Her mouth went drier still.

She had thought about it a million times, what she would do once 'little mann' was back in working order, what she'd say, how he'd react. But suddenly it was here, the time was now. And she was completely brain-dead.

It was. He was. She was.

She couldn't walk away, couldn't leave him lying there. He would take it as rejection, and she had rejected him too many times already. But how to proceed… Never in her life had she been shy about sex or pursuits of the flesh, but now, in the one moment that really mattered, she felt meeker than when she had been a blushing virgin.

His hands caught her face, pulling her up towards him, and she completely short-circuited, following his lead. She would always follow him.

Long, feminine fingers laced through his hair, pulling him to her, her lips brushing against his waiting ones, electricity shooting strait down her spine. She could taste copper and ozone on her tongue, like she had bit her tongue during a storm and she writhed against him. He was pushing and pulling her, tugging her in all directions as he rolled them so she was pinned beneath him, his tongue drifting along her lips. Gasping, she opened herself to him, tasting ozone again. It was like kissing a tesla coil, and she couldn't help but grin against his mouth at the nerdy reference.

Marshall shifted, settling between her thighs, and Mary wrapped her legs around his waist, cradling his hips against her, moaning as he moved his attentions from her lips to her neck. She had never let on to him that her neck was her weak spot, but the man was a fast learner, and at the first gasping mewl, he grinned and attacked the delicate column of her throat with renewed fervor. Fingernails found purchase on the front of his shirt and she literally ripped it in half, both stilled at the sound of ripping fabric and Mary blushed at the remains of the white t-shirt in her hands. Marshall's movements slowed, his lips pressing behind her ear as his hands pushed her tank top upwards, and Mary squirmed out of it, before her hands pressed against his chest, her short, blunt nails scratching his skin teasingly.

His hips flexed and he bucked against her in response, a strangled grunt escaping her lips. She was already seeing stars bursting with white hot intensity behind her eyes, and the burning behind her belly button was a strange sort of indescribable need.

She _needed_ him. _Wanted_ him. And the realization brought hot tears to her eyes.

Leaning forward, she licked up the column of his throat, nibbling on his adam's apple before her teeth drifted to his ear, worrying it between her teeth. Several men in her past, Raph included, had been turned off by her biting, but Marshall groaned and tilted his head to give her better access as he began to work her shorts off one handed, the other supporting his weight.

Her entire body was thrumming with fire as she lapped at his sweaty neck like a lioness in heat, biting at the tender flesh as she twisted her arms behind her to remove her own bra, flinging it across the room. Legs wriggled free of constricting shorts and she her breath caught in her throat as a stillborn hiccup, as sweet, gentle, Marshal Marshall Mann literally ripped her panties off.

Mary watched in abject fascination as her ripped white cotton panties were thrown across the room, falling in a little pile at the base of the dresser, her bra hanging off of a nearby chair. It was beautiful.

Turning back to him, she caught his face in her hands, pulling him back to her and kissing him soundly, tugging at his hair as she slanted her mouth over his. Her legs hiked up higher around his torso and she hooked her toes in the waist of his pants, pushing chili pepper print pajama bottoms and Texas flag boxers down in one smooth motion.

The moment bare flesh touched bare flesh, her entire body thrummed in deliciously achy anticipation, and Marshall groaned long and heavy in her ear. She was glad he didn't speak, because she knew speech was beyond her at that point. And Marshall not speaking meant that he wasn't thinking, wasn't over thinking. She knew what he thought about sex, lovemaking. How he viewed things, how she viewed things, but this was different.

So wholly different from any other experience that she didn't know how to classify it. Some bizarre place between fucking and making love, that was more about the joining than the climax, and she nearly fell apart when he reached between them and guided himself into her. They slid together in a way she couldn't describe, and she wrapped her limbs around him as he buried his face into her shoulder. Sensory overload roaring through their bodies, nearly overwhelming them both.

They wouldn't last long, but she didn't care. Mattress acrobatics could wait.

Tremors ran through her body as he gently rocked against her, their movements kept small by the bruising grips they had on one another. The only noise, the gentle squeak of bed springs and her small gasping breaths as they clung together.

Warmth and scent washed over her, the friction of Marshall against her too much and not enough at the same time, and she arched up into him, whimpering as she let herself fall over the edge. Another gentle whimper escaping her as he grunted into her neck, stilling above her for a long moment before he collapsed on top of her.

She held him to her chest, fingers stroking his scalp, feeling comfortable and euphoric with his weight pressing her into the mattress.

For once in her life, she felt like she was in the exact right place at the exact right time.

mMm

**A/N: **Okay. Wow. This was probably the hardest sex scene ever for me to write. I wanted it to be awkward and meaningful, but not a quick fix for the situation. They got that glimpse of being together (the idea of which Mary is becoming less and less hostile towards), and it was something rare and beautiful for both of them, but it doesn't change the fact that things still aren't right between them. Mary has grown up a lot, understanding that changing for Marshall is not like changing for other men. That it's something she wants to do, not something that's being forced upon her, and none of it is altering who she truly is. But she's still stubbornly Mary, and Emo-Marshall is still a little nuts. Remember there was no talking about anything, so it's only understandable that he's probably going to misunderstand the situation. It's getting better, but it's still not quite there yet. We have a couple of epiphanies and one HUGE surprise to go before they finally get _it_. Plus, sex with the male participant being partially paralyzed was a freaking bitch to write... :-/

Oh, and the interactions between Mary and Penny are based on my own interaction with our local Justice of the Peace's 3 year old daughter, JC. His son is on the same team as my nephew and I baby sit her a lot at games.

Me: JC what are you doing? (she peeks at me from under my chair)

JC: (Crawls out from under the chair and throws her arms out) I hold you! (Which is totally adorable when said by a 3 year old who doesn't always pronounce things right.)

Me: Come here squirt. (She climbs in my lap and proceeds to dance around on her butt, stealing my Dr. Pepper and Gummy Worms). What are you doing you dork?

JC's Mom: She hasn't had her nap today. (Mind you, she is laughing as she says it and videotaping JC jamming out to MC Hammer playing over the baseball fields audio system at the same time)

JC: I'm delirious!

Me: o_O You child, have the strangest vocabulary…

JC: (Big grin for all of two seconds before she passes out on me, nearly spilling Dr. Pepper down my front)

She and I interact like this all the time. When we were in Galveston, she'd yell "Kate" (Somehow the 'i' in Katie totally disappears when she says it) at the top of her lungs and then dives into the pool after me. Even with her floaties on she still gave us all heart attacks. She is the kind of child though that can get through to anyone, exactly the kind of tiny sidekick that Mary needs for her Texas adventures.

Any feedback would be very welcome.

Love Y'all,

DToB


End file.
